


sweet miscellany

by goodnightpuckbunny



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 40,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightpuckbunny/pseuds/goodnightpuckbunny
Summary: An archive of Sid and Geno ficlets from goodnightpuckbunny's tumblr. Please check each chapter's description for warnings. Do not go gentle into that good night.





	1. body swap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: body swap, fluff, sleepy kisses.

_Anonymous asked: Excited for your new story whenever it may come out! :) Has there ever been a request for a body swap, I suddenly think about maybe Sid and Geno colliding into each other by accident during a practice and chaos ensues when the team notices Sid suddenly speaking broken English and Geno is suddenly moving his limbs all awkwardly with a look of absolute terror in his eyes lol_

thanks! i’m excited too. it might take a while because this one is a bit more ambitious than the others…

i haven’t gotten many requests at all yet. i don’t read much body swap fic–it’s not really my thing?–but i’ll give you a little something :)

(posted on May 14, 2017)

* * *

Sid would love the extra height a lot more if he knew how to handle Geno’s limbs. Though in all honesty he couldn’t even handle Geno’s limbs when he was in his _own_ body. All those lean muscles and the flexibility and—

Well, anyways, the point is that Sid keeps tripping over himself and bumping into things. He prides himself in his athleticism, and this is just embarrassing. He fumbles around like a teenager enduring a growth spurt, bruising his legs on every errant surface and tripping over his feet. After the team finishes with their hooting and guffaws, laughter at Sidney’s voice sputtering Russian curses and Geno’s cheeks flushing scarlet with the effort of enduring the teasing, it becomes apparent that they’re going to have a really big problem. Beyond the fact that Sid doesn’t really have interest in being in Geno’s body _like this,_ there’s a potential disaster looming.

“Okay, you guys. Seriously,” Sid tries to affect some of his own stern captain tone while utilizing the depths of Geno’s voice. It mostly sounds silly. He tries not to grimace. “We’ve got a game tonight. I can’t play like this.” 

“Yes,” Geno agrees right away, grinning cheesily. “Can’t use short stick and gross old Crosby jock. Maybe I die.” The guys break into another fit of laughter.

Sid scowls. At least one of them is enjoying this. Some day, Sid is sure he’ll find it funny, too. Except right now he needs to go home to start his pre-game routine. And even _if_ he could navigate how completing his superstitious rites in Geno’s body would affect his luck, that’s nothing on how he’ll look bumbling all over the ice trying to fight off the Rangers in a body he has no idea how to use. Geno will definitely have the same issue in Sid’s body. He’s knocked over a lot of things in the past hour (a bucket of pucks, half of the water bottles, a tower of stick tape, the contents of his locker, Jake Guentzel) and joked about maneuvering with the world's biggest ass, but Sid is fairly certain some of those instances weren’t truly accidents.

It’ll be a huge fucking shitshow if they can’t get back into the right place. And soon.

“Does anyone have any ideas on how to fix this?” Sid speaks as evenly as he can. It’s getting a lot more difficult–he’s never thought about how Geno’s tongue fits against the bottom of his mouth and how he has all this pent-up energy buzzing just below his skin. _God._ He’s learning too much today. 

“True love’s kiss,” Flower offers in French, and there’s more helpless giggles from a few. Tanger slaps Flower’s knee. 

“Any _useful_ suggestions?” Sid asks, exasperated. Shearsy raises his hand. “Yes, Conor, go.”

Shearsy says, “Well what were you doing before you switched? Maybe if you do it again, you’ll switch back?” 

Sid mentally retraces his steps. They were just practicing. An optional skate that Sid elected to attend to see if a little extra time with the guys before a home game could spring him from his recent funk. He didn’t do anything different. He wasn’t even running drills anywhere _near_ Geno. He wasn’t talking about Geno, and he wasn’t thinking about Geno.

“There’s nothing I can think of,” he admits. “G? What about you?”

Geno shakes his—Sid’s—head in the negative. “Just work on faceoff.”

“Maybe you’ve just gotta…wait it out,” Kuni says. It’s not really helpful.

“That’s not helpful,” Sid tells him. 

“Look, if it doesn’t sort itself out by tonight, just take a healthy scratch. We can figure something out tomorrow.” Sid scowls at him. He’s not sure whether the expression would be more sinister on his or Geno’s face. Kuni holds up his hands, placatingly. “I’m just concerned that the more time we spend sorting this out on a game day, it’s gonna mess up everyone else’s schedules. There’s no reason the rest of us can’t play.”

Sid deflates. “You’re right,” he sighs. “Okay. Everyone go do what you need to before tonight. I’ll call the coaching staff if we need to scratch, and I’ll let Kuni know what’s going on.”

The guys are finally a little more subdued. They offer Sid mumbled consolations and a couple automatic back slaps since he’s in Geno’s body, and then they all file out to their cars or post-practice workouts.

“Well?” Sid asks Geno, finally alone with him in the change room. “What do we do?”

Geno ponders. “I think I go with you to your house. Can’t be alone like this.”

“Sure, I guess.” It’s weird to look at himself from this height. It’s like one of those dreams where he sees himself from the outside and he just has to deal with the consequences of whatever unexpected actions his dream-self takes. “I still want to do my pre-game, though.”

“Of course,” Geno smiles. “Me too.”

* * *

The logistics are a little tricky. Sid has to drive Geno’s speedy, ostentatious car while Geno has to decline Sid’s usual cluster of fans with a _not today, sorry_. At Sid’s house, Sid tries to insist Geno eat his usual meal of pasta with chicken, and Geno tries to guide him through a series of yoga stretches which Sid has always doubted has any real correlation to goal-scoring. He can respect that every guy has his own way of dealing with the pressures before a game. He knows that superstitions help athletes to get in the right mindset for a game. He’s heard that artists often do the same thing.

It’s just that Geno’s rituals are _wrong_.

“I can’t nap for an hour an a half, Geno. That’s absurd.” Sid’s naps are a precise eighty seven minutes. Three-point-five to get down and back up, and the nice round eighty in the middle. It’s symmetrical. It’s symbolic. And it isn’t technically a waste of an hour and a half.

“You want I go extra shower, then you take long nap,” Geno argues. “Compromise.”

Sid impatiently rubs a towel over Geno’s—his own—hair to get the moisture out. On a normal day he might use the blow dryer, but he doesn’t think he has the patience or indeed the mental capacity to deal with the dissonance of drying off his own body while inhabiting another. 

“An extra shower,” he says, “is relaxing and makes napping more comfortable. Plus I’m not going to get into a nice pressed suit when I’ve got morning practice lingering on me.”

But then Geno reasons, “Long nap good for older hockey player. More energy for best game.” Geno gets free of Sid’s grip and flops onto Sidney’s bed. Sid doesn’t even get the chance to tell him that he should take the guest room. Or should he, if he’s in Sid’s body? Should _Sid_ use the guest bed?

Geno pats the empty space next to himself. In a backwards kind of way, this is a fantasy of Sid’s. He lays down without thinking it through.

“I stay awake extra three minutes. Eighty seven.” Geno offers. And then, because he apparently can’t resist: “Shorter nap for shorter person.” 

Sid shoves him, albeit without any force. The troubles of the day are already starting to catch up with him. It’s uncomfortable to share his pre-game routine with Geno, but it’s also nice to be next to him in bed. Weird, because of the circumstances, but still nice. His eyelids are heavy. He blinks twice, and then falls asleep.

* * *

He wakes to the sound of his alarm and starts stretching to wake up. Toes first, rolling ankles, bending knees, and then—there’s someone else in the bed with him.

Geno.

It comes back to him with a moment of cloudy dread. The morning skate and the disorientation when he found himself suddenly on the other side of the rink. The panic that he had barely held back and the unexpected exhaustion of trying to balance two routines at once.

Then he realizes that he’s lying next to Geno because he’s back in his own body.

Thank Christ. Thank the hockey gods. Thank fucking _whoever_.

“Geno,” he says, feeling rightness surge through him. His bones are the right size and his muscles fit together in a familiar way. He doesn’t have Geno’s slight myopia or the twinge in his knee. He’s got two hundred pounds, five-foot-eleven of pure Sidney Crosby. The way it should be. And Geno looks way better in his own body. “Geno, wake up.”

Geno mumbles something which could very well be ‘five more minutes’ in Russian, and he rolls over, flings a long arm over Sid’s waist. He smacks his lips in Sid’s ear and his breath is hot and tickling and a little sour. It’s endearing.

“ _Wake up_ ,” he urges, and at that, Geno actually pulls Sid into his side and **—**

Kisses him.

Geno kisses him.

It’s only for a fraction of a second but it’s unmistakable. Chapped but still soft. It’s been a long damn time since Sid got sleepy kisses from _anyone_ , let alone—

Oh, God.

“Shh,” Geno says, followed by some more incomprehensible muttering.

His eyes are still shut like Geno could still fall back asleep, so Sid has to wriggle around and shake him. “ _Geno._ ”

Finally Geno seems to stir. He takes in his surroundings and the realizations flick across his face like a complex emotional slideshow that Sid can just barely follow. “Uh, Sid,” he starts to say. “I’m—”

“Do it again.” It’ll mess with his routines but he has to grasp for his chances before they slip away. He can’t let this one pass. It’s too important.

“Do?” Geno asks.

“Kiss me again.”

Geno does. And Sid kisses him back. And then his alarm goes off a second time and it’s hockey calling. They can get back to this later.


	2. vampire sid / werewolf geno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: werewolf-vampire prejudice, mild possessive behavior, off-screen hockey violence.

_Anonymous asked: Werewolf!Geno meeting Vampire!Sid au?_

mean, it’s still hockey though, right?

(posted on May 16, 2017)

* * *

Evgeni is more tired than he’s ever been when he finally arrives in Pittsburgh. He’d probably say that his exhaustion is just the result of travel, and the worry that they wouldn’t make it through the American customs and he’d be bounced back to a very irate Metallurg, and on top of that, not having slept properly for a very long time. The truth is that he’s been drained for months, or maybe longer. All the subterfuge and manipulation has threatened to drag the fight out of him more than once. He hasn’t even been able to shift the last two full moons. His head is foggy and his bones feel leaden. 

So he doesn’t think he can be blamed for being less than crystal clear on the dinner at Mario Lemieux’s.

Then after a few days’ rest where Evgeni mostly just tries to sleep and eats nearly triple his weight in Ksenia’s cooking, Sergei brings him to training camp. And Evgeni gets a big surprise.

“Crosby is a _vampire_?” He asks Sergei, his voice low. He’s not sure, but he thinks the phrase would translate easily if anyone were to overhear.

“He’s half-human,” Sergei replies with a look that’s half admonishment and half sympathy. Sergei isn’t a werewolf, but he grew up around them. Werewolves and vampires, historically, are not friends. 

“He doesn’t smell human at all.” Evgeni sniffs, pulling the scents of the locker room over the back of his tongue and into his lungs. He smells mostly sweat and the stench of used pads—which he doesn’t necessarily find bad, and he’ll probably like it more when he gets to know his teammates—but there’s that unmistakable vampire smell too. Old blood and lilacs. “I can’t get anything but vampire from him.”

Sergei shakes his head. “Maybe give it time. He’s young and probably always thirsty. Perhaps after a while he won’t be so offensive to you.”

Evgeni tries not to gag at the thought of a thirsty vampire. He knows that it’s worth it to be here, to be in America, to play for the NHL. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle a vampire on the team, hockey supernova or not. 

Then as if beckoned by the conversation, Crosby comes over and says something to Sergei in English. His cheeks are flushed. Evgeni doesn’t want to think about why that is, but he does anyway. Does Sidney’s thrall invite unsuspecting Penguins fans to his house? Does he just drink a little or does he suck them dry? Does he fill his bed with the corpses of his victims?

“He wants to know if you’ll practice some passing with him.” Sergei translates.

“Tell him I’d sooner drink cement.”

Whatever Sergei replies with is not a direct translation, because Crosby smiles and goes to re-lace his skates. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Sergei says and pats him on the shoulder. 

Evgeni completely doubts that.

* * *

The full moons are becoming a problem.

When he’s shifted to the wolf, his memory is spotty and mostly comes back to him in scents and flashes of greyscale images that don’t make much sense, if he remembers anything at all. In Russia, he’d do the full moon run with his family-pack, and then as a teenager he’d roam with a handful of teammates. There was security in that. He knew he’d never get up to anything truly awful. 

Once a month, now that he’s a little more settled into the rhythm of his new life, he shifts and runs the Gonchar’s backyard. When he could finally shift again after months of feeling stiff and nauseous all the time, it was a huge relief. He woke up in the morning feeling refreshed and full of energy. His hockey that night had been more than electric.

However, the next full moon he woke up outside the Lemieux home. And the next. And the next. He’s been patrolling the perimeter of the property, apparently, protecting the family of hockey-famous vampires inside.

“Why don’t you stop me?” Evgeni asks of Sergei in the early morning after a run, when he rolls up in the family van with clean clothes and Gatorade for the third time since the season began. 

“If you think I’m going to get in the way of a lovesick wolf, then you take me for a fool.” It’s just barely light out, and the fresh snow of Pittsburgh midwinter glitters with the dawn. Evgeni wants a big American breakfast of steak and eggs and toast. He also wants to not be having this conversation, but it can’t be helped. Something has to be done sooner rather than later. 

“I’m not lovesick,” he protests. “Sid can take care of himself.”

Except Sid _can’t_ take care of himself, a lot of the time. He should be able to pummel any player who plays dirty against him into the boards. And yet he just lets the hits come, lets guys crosscheck him in the numbers, lets players trip him and skate away. Once in a while he’ll try and get the refs involved, but then that just makes it worse. Evgeni wishes he could tell Sid to fight back, to set his teeth against their flesh and _tear_ , but he doesn’t have the words. And beyond any advice Evgeni could give him, Sid’s not the type to flash his fangs.

Sergei is laughing, though. 

“It’s not funny,” Evgeni tells him.

“It’s very funny,” Sergei replies. “In August you thought you wouldn’t be able to breathe around him, and now his scent drags you to his house like a lost pup. You’re his best stalker. The girls of Pittsburgh have nothing on you.”

Evgeni scowls out the window. 

If Sid weren’t a vampire, Evgeni might think that his crooked, shy smiles and curly hair and goofy laugh was endearing. There was a girl back home with a laugh like Sid’s. Evgeni used to spend a lot of his time trying to be funny around her. He finds himself doing the same thing with Sid, sometimes, but Sergei doesn’t have to know that. 

In any case, his features don’t suit a vampire. 

“Just stop me next time. Please.” It’s one thing to run around his block in Magnitogorsk on the full moon, but it’s quite another to prowl this affluent suburb. One day he’s going to pounce on a squirrel and scandalize the whole neighborhood. He doesn’t want the media attention. He doesn’t want the attention at all. His wolf is really fucking him over with all this Sidney shit. It’s possible he won’t be able to avoid Sid without help.

Sergei sighs. “I’ll try,” he promises, “but if you snap at me, I’m calling the pound.”

* * *

Evgeni remembers watching Sid’s first fight, with Ference in Boston, and thinking: _Good. Now no one will mistake him for weak_.

_This_ time, he doesn’t know what he feels. 

He can’t stop staring at the cut on Sid’s chest while one of the trainee medics dabs at it with a cotton swab. The antiseptic stings Evgeni’s nose. He feels almost sick with concern. 

“You bleeding,” Evgeni says eventually. 

Sid looks down where Evgeni is staring at the rosy spot of blood near his collarbones. “Well, yeah. My pads rubbed me through my sweater, we think. I’ll be fine.” Evgeni glances up at him. He does look fine, if sweaty and more than a little rumpled. “Are _you_ okay?”

Evgeni actually doesn’t know what he’s talking about for a second, but then he remembers why Sid had the fight in the first place. He took a hip check when he was in the middle of a stride and got flipped. “Am okay.” It might bruise tomorrow, if anything. “Sid, don’t have fight for me.”

He doesn’t need anyone to fight for him. He can finish his own battles. It was a really unpleasant check, but it was legal, and probably looked worse than it was. 

The medic finishes up and leaves them. Sid actually looks a little angry. “He was saying stuff about you, before,” he says, and then clarifies. “Ballard.” 

Evgeni snorts. “Guys say shit. Is hockey.”

“No, it was like. He was saying all these…these _things_ about you being a wolf. It’s not like you could hear it to defend yourself. And then he _hit_ you—” Sid stands, his mouth a pressed line, and reaches for his shirt so he can re-dress. “He was just being a dick. Now he’ll know to leave you alone.”

The shallow red line catches his eye again, and Evgeni puts his hand on Sid’s chest before he can get his shirt on. He frames the cut in the vee of his thumb and forefinger, his palm resting over Sid’s heart. He can actually feel it beating. “You bleeding,” he says again, a little stupidly, sure. But he doesn’t get it.

“I’m only _half_ a vampire, Geno,” Sid says. “I don’t drink from anybody. I just have to take supplements—pills. I bleed like you. Did you not know that?”

Evgeni wraps his arms around Sid for the first time without the barrier of hockey equipment between them. He feels radiating warmth where he thought he’d feel chill. Sid smells like ocean salt and full moon runs. The guys around the room are cooing at them. Evgeni feels foolish, but not because of that. “Don’t fight for me, Sid,” he says, thinking that it’s all the worse if Sid is going to bleed and bruise for every punch he takes. 

Sid hugs him back. “Yeah, well,” he says, “too bad.”

* * *

“Geno, stop clinging to me _,”_ Sid whines, but he’s still grinning. He’s been smiling for days, and Evgeni never wants it to end. He just holds on tighter.

The Cup is beautiful, a shining beacon of success, and it makes him want to howl and run and maybe cry (just a little). 

_Sid_ , he thinks, is beautiful too. And Evgeni knows they can get the Cup again.

Together.


	3. soulmarks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: soul marks/mates, growing up, mild shame, fluff, smoochin'.

Anonymous asked: I'm kind of weak for Soulbond tat aus, could I request one?

of course you can! 

(posted on May 18, 2017)

* * *

Sidney’s mark comes in while he’s at Shattuck. It settles in after five minutes of a hot prickling sensation: a brown, blurry shape across the crease of his left elbow. Jack laughs until no sound comes out, wheezing when he pronounces what it looks like. Sid slaps a hand over the newly-sensitive skin to hide it, and his whole face _burns_ , but it’s done.

“A hockey stick,” Jack says, voice full of mirth, rolling across Sid’s lower bunk and nearly toppling onto their messy floor again. “You soulmark is a _hockey stick_.”

“Cut it out,” Sid complains, and throws a balled up sock at him. 

Jack neatly avoids the toss. “Are you gonna call your parents?” He asks.

Sid doesn’t know. Somehow it seems too private. Maybe he’ll just wait for Christmas to break the news. For now he can kind of keep it just for himself—if Jack ever stops giggling. 

* * *

Evgeni’s mark arrives on an unremarkable November day—a fuzzy line protected by the tender skin of his inner thigh. At first he thinks it must be dirt or a bruise, maybe blood or chocolate. But it doesn’t rub off in the shower when he notices it. He must have missed the tell-tale burning because he had been out on the ice for an early morning practice. There’s no mistaking it for what it is, though: the smudgy shape of a hockey stick. Like a check mark that’s been run over by a truck.

He doesn’t tell anyone. He tries not to think about it.

* * *

The mark is not really that much of a secret. It’s in a pretty obvious place. He doesn’t flash it to the press and he tries to avoid wearing short-sleeved shirts when he thinks there’ll be cameras around, but Sid doesn’t go to all the lengths he could in order to hide it. 

His family knows. Most of his teammates know. His doctors definitely know. 

“Why does it still look unclear like that?” He asks at a monthly checkup as the doctor holds his left arm in gloved hands and stares at it. Every time someone scrutinizes his mark like this he gets goosebumps. It’s been almost two years but he still feels like it’s fresh.

“Everybody’s soulmark is different, Sidney,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with yours at all, if the skin is undamaged and it doesn’t cause any pain. I’ve seen soulmarks that are very vibrant and complex. I’ve also seen some that are even fainter than yours.” 

That doesn’t exactly answer Sid’s question, although he’s a little relieved to know it’s all normal. There isn’t a lot of research on soulmarks that seems scientifically sound. But, he supposes, soulmarks themselves are probably not _scientifically sound_. 

His doctor puts down his arm and fills in a few things on his chart. “There are some theories that the clarity of a soulmark determines the strength of a bond.”

Sid has heard that one. He doesn’t really want a weak bond—he thinks he’d be better served with no bond at all if that were the case. It’s maybe more than a little selfish if he’s looking at a career in hockey, but he wants someone who will look out for him, be there for him, and think he’s at least a little funny. Someone with the same blurry hockey stick mark could be on another team entirely. A person he would share the love of the game with in the off-season but be only vague friends with during the rest of the year. He’d rather just not know who it was. 

“However, I know that’s not true,” the doctor smiles at him as she continues. “My parents had soulmarks so light that you couldn’t even tell what shapes they were. Their marriage lasted fifty-seven years before they passed. You have nothing to worry about. When you find your intended, just be good to each other. That’s all that matters.”

“Thanks,” Sid says, shrugging back into his Rimouski hoodie and feeling small, “I’ll try.”

His doctor inverts her gloves into each other and wings them into the trash, a perfect goal. “And while you’re at it, try to eat more,” she says. “Vegetables, okay?”

* * *

It’s not too hard to hide his soulmark. Evgeni knows what kind of person a matching hockey stick mark implies. He’s not willing to risk his career and his safety for someone he might never meet. 

He switches from briefs to boxers. He walks with narrow strides in the showers. He only ever crosses his legs one way. The hair on his body stubbornly refuses to grow on his inner thigh, but there’s still only one instance where someone might glance at his mark. And he does that with the lights out. 

“What’s that?” Only one girl ever asks, and traces her fingers over it. 

Evgeni wants to slap her hand away, but he rolls them over instead. “It’s an injury from hockey,” he tells her, and sweeps her arms over her blonde head. “It still hurts though, so try not to touch it.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmurs in sympathy. And thankfully that’s the end of all discussion. 

His parents worry that he hasn’t told them about the appearance of any mark yet.

“Of course, you could be a late bloomer,” his mama says, adding her pelmeni to a boiling pot. This conversation is the price he pays for being able to watch her cook, but he loves her food far more than anything the team’s chefs or any restaurant in Magnitogorsk could provide. “Your cousin Lilya didn't have hers until she was nearly twenty! Oh, but you’ll tell us when yours comes, won’t you Zhenya?”

“Yes, Mama. The minute it shows up, I will.” The lie is an old one, by now. It still tastes ashy on his tongue. 

It’s enough stress on his parents that the team is pressuring him to stay in Russia when he has spot waiting for him in America, on the Penguins’ team. They already hold his family, his talent, his respect over his head. No one should have to bear this secret as well. Not his family, especially. He loves them too much.

* * *

The Penguins are all very open and pleased with their soulmarks, which is a nice change from the teenage embarrassment of his junior team. Everyone likes to show off their marks, and parade them for everyone to admire and chirp. Flower keeps a photo in his bag of him and Véronique flashing their twinned fleur-de-lis at a summer pool party in Montréal. Mario and Nathalie’s wedding rings have windows to display their lopsided little hearts.

Sid’s not too nervous to show his mark to anyone who asks—they mostly just laugh, “Of course it is,” and walk away—but he’s not as open as he was before. He thinks if it were the shape of a skate instead of a stick he’d be safer. And everyone can play hockey, but people probably make assumptions. It’s a little inconvenient when he has to wear his sleeves no higher than his elbow in the delicious heat of Florida, or Texas, or California. Or smear his skin with the peachy-pale makeup cream the PR department gave him across his mark. 

“You know we’d have your back no matter what, right, Creature?” Colby says of the mark, knocking his own elbow into Sid’s side meaningfully. 

“I’ve never met them,” Sid replies, slipping and being neutral when in an interview he’d have to say _her_. “It’s a weak bond, anyways.” 

It doesn’t take long before he just shrugs when guys ask.

* * *

Not being able to speak English well enough beyond hockey makes Evgeni feel lost all the time. It’s been two years, but he still struggles. His vocabulary gains new words every day. He can order his sandwiches and his steaks, and can communicate most of his needs to the trainers, and can chirp his teammates’ bad haircuts. Beyond that, every time there’s a sentence he hasn’t heard before, he has to translate everything in his head. 

And then usually it doesn’t make sense because he can’t parse the grammar. 

And _then_ he has to translate his own response from Russian.

He drops fragments all over the place and forgets the English articles. He gets these _looks_ from people, pitying like he’s stupid; irritated like he’s doing it on purpose the same way he tries to avoid interviews in English. He feels trapped in his head until he can get back to his books and movies and the dinner table conversations with Sergei and his family. 

So he’s struggling with whatever the fuck Tanger is saying with his dumb French-Canadian accent. Evgeni is already tired from the game, stretching out his leg in the shower so he can skip the trip to the massage table at least until morning. He wants his bed after the loss to the Flyers at home. And maybe a shot of vodka for good measure. 

Then he follows Tanger’s gaze. 

Well, Evgeni has a pretty nice dick, but Tanger doesn’t have to be staring at it because he has nothing really to be jealous of. 

But then Evgeni corrects his line of thinking. How he’s standing, the angle from where Tanger is frozen with just a towel around his neck, the lighting in the shower bright and unforgiving. Tanger is looking at his mark. 

“You say to anyone I’m kill you dead,” Evgeni says, his voice deep and threatening as he can make it without yelling and attracting attention. 

“Okay,” Tanger throws his hands up, a universal white flag, “Okay, but Geno—”

“Dead,” Evgeni repeats in a growl.

“You don’t have to hide it. There’s something you should know,” Tanger tries to say, but Evgeni turns off his shower spray and brushes past. He doesn’t even care that there’s still soap in his hair. 

* * *

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” Sid says. Geno’s lips are questing after his, but he has to talk before he loses himself to the moment. “Geno, you should have told someone. Me at least. Didn’t you trust me?”

“Oh, Sidney Crosby, so open about life. Tell everyone about mark. Show world: _look at my hockey stick mark! I’m so proud!_ ”His voice goes up several tones, and Sid supposes that’s Geno’s impression of him. Pretty sad, he thinks. 

Sid brushes the spot through Geno’s sweatpants where he knows the mark sits on Geno’s thigh. He’s fascinated as he watches a full-body tremor ripple through Geno. That’s going to be a lot of fun to experiment with. Later. “Hey,” he says, softly into the space between them and makes sure to catch Geno’s eyes, “that’s not fair. I was worried.” 

“Me too, worried!” Geno protests, and god, he’s so pink. He looks great like this, sitting against the decorative pillows in Sid's bed. 

“A lot of people know about it, though. I wasn’t ashamed of it. It’s just that after a while it was easier to just hide it all the time.” He sighs. “And I got pretty tired of people feeling sorry for me. Didn’t you tell _anyone_? Gonch? The trainers? Your family, even?” 

“I’m tell everyone tomorrow, if you want,” Geno says, though he certainly looks uneasy with the idea. “Tweet picture and write, ‘Sidney and Geno forever.’”

“Please don’t. I wouldn’t be able to deal with the phone calls from my parents just yet.” And the resulting media circus might even be too much for _him_ to handle. 

“Are we done talk?” Geno asks, shifting their bodies together again from where they’ve drifted apart. “Can I kiss you now?” 

“Yes,” Sid breathes, and Geno takes his mouth, sure and wet. He likes it, a lot.

He’s heard plenty of stories that say the first kiss with your bondmate is like fireworks and Christmas. He thinks those romantic ideas are a load of shit. 

Because kissing Geno is not like a fairy tale. He feels every tiny fraction of a second with detailed realism. Geno’s uneven puffs of air that brush across his cheeks when Sid can’t seem to breathe at all. The way Geno’s lips are textured but the inside of his mouth is smooth and slick. Sid’s making noises that aren’t really sexy—they just sound like he’s trying to start a sentence but changes his mind before the words can come. He doesn’t know what he should do with his tongue. Should he meet Geno halfway or try to gain the distance? Is it too fast for a first kiss?

Geno pulls away before Sid can figure it out, and the difference between kissing and not is like having his skates tripped out from under him. 

He grabs onto Geno out of self-defense, hands clinging to the shells of his ears. 

“Don’t stop,” Sid pants out, shoving one of his knees between Geno’s and using his weight to bring them as close together as he can. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” Geno says, and kisses him again; lips, tongue, his hand on Sid’s elbow, his thumb on the blurry shape of a hockey stick. 


	4. angst sid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: angst, fluff, comfort, late-night McDonald's.

_Anonymous asked: good luck for the fic! If you're up for a request I'm always a trash for an angsty Sid who doesn't know how to behave with other fellow human beings (mostly because he lived with despicable people who bullied this very talented and very smol kid) :) Throw Geno in the mix any way you want and you'll make me very very happy :)_

thanks! i don’t know why i decided to write something so big but ha ha ha here we are!!! hopefully once i start writing it’ll just pour out, but i think it’s going to be 10 chapters…definitely longer than any fanfic i’ve written before.

i’m also a big fan of angst (i used to avoid it but now i find it very cathartic). tbh i think sid would be quite capable handling himself around other people–like his ability to be verbose and polite with fans, media, teammates, etc. is something i think is a strength of his (after hockey). but sometimes i worry that he’s not letting himself be genuine. so yes anyways, here we go, some angst for you:

(posted on May 24, 2017)

* * *

“Sid, can you tell us a little bit about that hit in the second period?”

The reporters’ faces are familiar, but he probably couldn’t pick them out of a crowd if asked. The lights seem to shine right through him; his head is throbbing and he really wants something to eat. A second shower wouldn’t be remiss, though he’d rather the hotel bathroom’s than the visitor locker room’s. His scalp itches, but he’s not going to take off his hat to scratch—a nervous tick for analysts to pick apart later, and probably a thousand pictures on the internet of his matted hair. 

“The one on the power play? Behind the net?” He asks to clarify, and the reporter nods. “Yeah, well, I was just trying to get the puck out of there to Phil. It wasn’t much. I’m not worried.” 

The same reporter says, “It looked like you were kind of bent in an awkward way, there. There’s no injury from that?”

“No,” Sid replies, “Not at all. It probably looked worse than it was, but I’m okay. It happened fast. Uh, yeah. It’s pretty normal to get checked like that. I just lost a wheel for a second. And, uh, you know, ice is pretty slippery.” Some of the reporters chuckle. That’s good. It’ll make him look like he’s in good spirits. 

He doesn’t talk about the real hit that hurt—an innocent enough check at the boards in the third which could have been an interference penalty as much as it looked like a legal play. He didn’t complain about it to the ref, and he skated away on it, gnawing on his mouth guard as he made his way onto the bench. Sid can still feel the throb in his leg, and he’ll probably have to get it looked at in the morning. (Certainly it’ll bruise, ugly and mottled; hopefully he won’t have to sit anything out.)

He doesn’t talk about the loss, how it stings and makes him clench his fist around the edge of the seat beneath him. The longer the season draws on, the more injuries the team sustains, the more it feels like Sid’s team is slipping from his grasp. The vets don’t even seem to find his pep talks endearing anymore, let alone helpful. The stars in the eyes of the rookies have long dimmed.

He doesn’t talk about how if he stops for a moment, he can feel himself aging. He doesn’t talk about how he feels like a rope, frayed at both ends. He just gets through the interview and talks about what people want to hear. He _talks_ ; he doesn’t say anything at all.

After the interview, Sid escapes to the changing room for the relative armor of his blue game day suit. He hears one of the guys calling out that the bus will be leaving for the hotel in ten. Sid forgoes the tie, stuffs it into his jacket pocket, and strides down the hallway to the loading area.

“Room service?” Flower asks, standing at Sid’s side in the lineup for the bus. “In my room. Tanger, Kuni, maybe Cully. You up for it?”

Sid wants to say no. He’s tired, but if he doesn’t make plans, he knows that the next offer he gets will be a rowdy, late night of cards and the tiny liquor bottles of the mini fridge with the younger guys. At least with his usual group he’ll only have to endure an hour, maybe an hour and a half, of the guys calling their wives and talking to sleepy-voiced kids.

“Sure, thanks,” Sid says, approximating a smile. 

Flower understands some of it, and claps Sid on the shoulder, keeps quiet for a while so Sid can just stare into the middle distance as his mind churns through plays that should have gone better. Lately, Flower has a stiffness to his countenance as soon as he thinks no one is paying attention. Sid doesn’t want to think about why that is, but he knows. Flower is his friend. Professionally, he’s careful to be neutral about it. But personally, he’s concerned to say the least.

Well, that’s just one more thing to add to his list.

It’s not that it hasn’t been a great year. He’s still having a lot of fun, and he loves hockey—always feels grateful that he gets to do it for a living and be so successful. He wouldn’t trade his career for anything, and every moment he’s on the ice is like a dream. It’s just that sometimes it drags. Sometimes it feels like expectations are a weight tied to his ankles while he’s trying to swim for shore, and the salt water is filling his mouth until he's choking on the entire ocean.

* * *

After dinner, Sid detours on the way back to his room. He’s going to stare at the glowing face of the vending machine until he can either talk himself into or out of a chocolate bar. He’s craving something chewy over something crunchy. Maybe a Mars.

Except when he rounds the corner to the little alcove of snacks, Geno is already there, height bowed to press his forehead to the plastic front of a machine.

Sid steels himself for a long night of playing therapist, if he has to, and approaches. “Hey, Geno. Everything alright?”

Geno looks up at him. “Machine eat my dollar,” he says. “Then I see sign say sold out.”

“Oh,” says Sid, a little glad that there’s not some deeper problem. 

“It’s okay. I just want some snacks, watch some movies. Maybe this is sign to go to bed.”

And the responsible captain in Sid agrees. Neither of them should be pondering the vending machines when they’ve got a flight in the morning. What’s more, it’s already past curfew, but…

“Do you want to go get something?” Sid offers. “I saw a McDonald’s on the way here.”

Geno perks up at that. His love for late night burgers and milkshakes is well-documented. “Ice cream for you?” Geno asks, and well, Sid’s preferences are no secret either.

They get to the McDonald’s with the help of Geno’s iPhone. It’s just after one, so place is mostly full of college-aged kids in either clubwear or sweatpants. Sid mourns a moment for the university days he never had, before he has to sternly tell himself that his life isn’t anywhere close to over yet. It’s just that it wouldn’t be the same. If he gets his degree in his 40s, he’s not going to be able to fit in with kids in their early adulthood.

Even now, their conversations sound alien to him. It’s a rapid-fire babble of nonsense jokes, worse than what he hears the rookies laughing about, and their fashion sense seems silly to him.

He tucks himself into a corner away from the noise and tries to be grateful that none of their attention is spared for him.

Laden with a tray, Geno finds him a few minutes later. He sets the McFlurry cup in front of Sid. For himself, Geno has ordered two Big Macs, a large fries, and what Sid assumes is a vanilla milkshake.

“Don’t tell trainers, or I’m not buy you ice cream next time,” Geno threatens.

“It’s _your_ job to tell the trainers if you go off your diet plan,” Sid replies, although he knows that neither of them intend to do so. He figures the trainers all already know anyways. 

They sit in silence for a while. Geno plows through his burgers. Sid enjoys his McFlurry, which seems to gain a lot of its delicious power from the tube-like spoon that comes with it.

The companionable quiet doesn’t last for long, though. Eventually Geno moves onto picking through his fries for the longest one, and then points it at Sid’s chest. “So why you sad?” He asks.

Sid startles. He was under the impression that they were out for _Geno’s_ sake, not his. Mostly, Geno’s problems are easy to predict: frustration at his level of play, a sliding scale of irritation to infuriation rolling through him, depending either on how long he’s been playing below personal proficiency or how bad their team effort was on a particular game. And the solution is also easy: Sid lets Geno detail all his own shortcomings, then Geno listens to Sid outline his recent and long-lasting successes. By the end of it, Geno is reinvigorated and goes back to playing the way that Sid is always confident he can.

And…Sid wouldn’t describe himself as _sad_. He doesn’t think there’s an English or a Russian word for what he’s feeling. It’s all gnarled inside him. He definitely doesn’t think it can be handled over middle-of-the-night McDonald’s.

“I’m fine,” he says instead, and shrugs, “Just tired maybe? We should’ve stayed at the hotel.” 

Geno hooks his ankle around Sid’s under the table, and Sid startles a second time. Neither of them are much for the intimate little gestures teams develop for comfort on road trips. “No media, Sid. Tell me for real. I care.”

Sid swallows, throat thick. He pushes the ice cream away, half-finished. “There’s nothing wrong. Hey, we should try to talk about the defense on Wednesday’s game, because—”

But his attempts to change the subject are derailed. “You can’t keep all inside, Sid. It’s bad for you. If you hurt, team want to know.” Then Geno adds softly, “I want to know.”

He wants to be angry at that, feels it bubble up dim and ugly in his stomach, but he forces it down to a fizzle. Sid hates any implication that he’s hurt. He’s spent so much of his career so far sitting on the sidelines just _wishing_ for a clean bill of health. He can’t let how he’s feeling keep him away. He’ll keep plodding through game after game until they win. “I’m fine,” he says again, but this time it just sounds hollow.

“You have sports psych?” Geno asks, finally cutting right through to the heart of it. 

With some level of kindness, Geno sips his milkshake and gives Sid time to come up with his answer. Eventually Sid says, “No.”

It’s probably really foolish for him not to have one. He checks in with the team’s psychologist at the beginning of the season like they all do. His answers, sitting in the plush chairs of her office, are always the same—now practiced enough to sound authentic. _I’m excited for the season. I have a support network. I’m confident in my ability to help the team. No, winning isn’t everything. Yes, I’ll contact you if I ever need help_.

Geno thinks it over, or seems to. Sid wonders if it’s just Geno who planned to ask him about his mental health, or if the rest of the core is awaiting some sort of text-message status update.

“Tomorrow I’m tell Jen I want more interviews, less for you,” Geno says, and Sid feels himself heat, unable to take his eyes off Geno even though he kind of wants to run. “Other guys too, take more. Kuni, Horny, little baby Penguins. I make Phil take some.”

“Geno—” Sid tries to protest.

“Young guys not ask you for late night party. You need sleep, probably,” and then he nods to himself and his brilliant ideas, “And you also need more dessert. Everyone know two ways make Sidney Crosby happy: hockey and cake.”

Sid _really_ feels red now. “I don’t eat that much dessert.”

“Yes,” Geno says, “You do. But is fine. Cute, for captain to have thing like that. Better than captain who yells or captain who drinks. But not good for captain to be sad.”

Sid hangs his head. There it is, at last, what he was waiting for. The confirmation that he’s failing at his job because he’s letting his heart get in the way of what his head and his body know how to do. 

“Sid,” Geno says, quietly, “Not good for _you_ be sad. Please, talk to someone. Anyone you trust. Parents or family. Guys, friends, coach if you want. Doesn’t have to be me. Take care of whole team not your job alone. We all work hard. And when we sick, we see doctor, or hockey not so fun anymore.” 

He resolves himself not to cry, but as soon as he does, his eyes well up and spill over, dripping down his face and onto his hands folded in his lap. Immediately, he swipes the heels of his palms over his eyes, but the damage is done. The expression on Geno’s face is soft–sympathetic and concerned.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sid says again, because that’s all he can pull from himself and his voice sounds horribly wrecked, betraying everything. Blessedly, Geno drinks his milkshake, reads something on his phone, and leaves Sid in peace to dab at his his face with scratchy brown napkins.

On the way back to the hotel, Geno loops an arm around Sid’s shoulders. Normally, Sid would shrug away, but right now he wants to be held and this is as close as he’s going to get. The night around them is coolish and the wind bustles through the skyscrapers of downtown. There aren’t many people around so it feels private, kind of. Geno doesn’t say anything, but Sid can tell he’s thinking. And meanwhile, Sid tries to think of what he can do to make it seem like he’s not falling apart. There’s no room in their lives for him to be anything but a solid wall of rock.

He’s still thinking about it when Geno steers Sid down the hallway to drop him off.

“Sid,” Geno says, “Next time I’m being bad at leading, you tell me.”

“You’re not bad at leading,” Sid says in dazed autopilot. 

“Yes, I am. I don’t notice when my friend is hurting, and then I’m too slow to say, to help.”

Sid huffs, “There’s nothing to worry about, G, _I’m—_ ”

He can’t say it this time. Geno wraps him up in one of the hugs that he loves getting. He can tuck his face into the space between Geno’s neck and shoulder, and breathe. The other guys, when they dare to, give him the same hug. But Geno is the perfect height for it, if a little slimmer than Sid is used to without all his hockey gear. Sid feels his eyes close and his body relax into the embrace. “It’s okay. I got you.”

* * *

_Anonymous asked: i just randomly found your little fic where sidney maybe has depression and he and gene go to mcdonalds in the middle of the night together (sorry, tumblr won't let me include a link to the post) on tumblr and fell in love. I was wondering if you gave written any other pieces for it / would be willing to extend it a little? thank you so much in advance_

thank you! :) i had to re-read it myself because it’s been so long since i wrote it. waaaaay back at the end of may this year.

i didn’t have anything else written for it. i’ll give you a wee bit now–only just a drabble because i’m feeling pretty unwell today and i should go to bed early. this would be quite some time later after the previous ficlet.

(posted on December 5, 2017)

* * *

Sid settles onto the big, heather-grey couch. He winces as he does, but the pain has subsided considerably. Geno had helped him gently smear some of the trainers’ healing salve onto the burning red lines where his old pads had given him a rash. The cream had been cool, and Geno’s fingers gentle. Sid carefully doesn’t think about how he’d love to stretch out on his sheets some spring afternoon and let Geno prod his muscles, searching out aches to soothe, the dancing movement of his hands a little ticklish, but mostly calming. It’s great that Geno can help him, though. At one point in his life, it may have been easy for Sid to bend his arms pretzel-like to reach the spots on his back. It’s no longer the case. 

What Geno mostly helps him with, however, is not treating his equipment-related rash. 

Dr. Powers had suggested that Sid should find ways to lean on those around him. He probably hadn’t meant it literally, but that’s exactly what Sid did when he invited Geno over after a loss. 

Geno curled around Sid on the couch. He tucked his long arms about Sid, careful not to rub any tender spots. With his lanky, muscled frame, he made an unusual cuddling companion, but still one that Sid felt an immense comfort lying down next to. Sid was in his biggest, baggiest, bulkiest sweatshirt, and between the worn cotton and Geno’s chest, Sid was warm and dozy within moments. He pillowed his head on Geno’s shoulder, and in turn, Geno rubbed his cheek against Sid’s hair.

The hard part was explaining how he felt. Dr. Powers had encouraged Sid’s honesty with people he trusted, but it was still a struggle to form the words. He still couldn’t bite down on the niggling thoughts that told him he was letting the team down by showing weakness. _Showing emotion_ , Dr. Powers had said, _is not weak. It takes a very strong person to be open with how they feel._

“I’m so exhausted,” Sid mumbles into the fabric of Geno’s shirt as he buries his face. He says it in the tone that belies age he’s technically too young to be experiencing. He wouldn’t say it around anyone except for Geno. The chirping wouldn’t be worth it from the others. 

“It’s hard few weeks,” Geno replies generously. 

“I thought I’d feel better once I started scoring again, but I don’t. I’m just–tired.”

“Just sleep.” It’s not what Sid meant by being tired, and Sid knows Geno knows it, but the permission relaxes him. He can let some of the stress of the game go. Geno sweeps his hand in a slow pattern against Sid’s lower back. “Tomorrow I make you nice dessert-breakfast.”

Sid sighs happily, thinking of waffles drizzled with syrup and dusted with icing sugar. “Please don’t try to burn down my kitchen again.”

Geno clucks his tongue in mock-offense. “No-bake recipe this time. I find it on Pinterest—you like. Lots of fruit.”

“No chocolate?” Fruit is Meal Plan Approved.

“Yes, some chocolate.” Geno’s fingers slip underneath Sid’s sweater to trace a few little swirls on his hip, and then they slide away again. Sid’s eyelids are heavy. He could take a nap before he crawls into bed, surely.

“Mmm,” Sid hums before he falls asleep, “okay, you make breakfast.” 


	5. interrupting teammates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: fluff, comfort, denial.

_icosahedonist asked: for your prompts: an interrupted moment_

(posted on June 5, 2017)

* * *

“Hey, Sid do you—” Rusty rounds the corner into the stick room and stops in his tracks, backpedals a step. “Oooookay. Sorry, uh, I’ll just…”

“What’s up, Rusty?” Sid asks, extracting himself from Geno’s embrace. It should be a very compromising position, but it’s totally fine because _nothing is going on_. Sid just feels better sometimes if Geno bear-hugs him against a wall. It quiets the buzzing in his head. 

“No, I can come back. Or…not. I’ll go. My bad.” Rusty stammers, hands held up in some kind of surrender, and he speeds out of the room. 

Sid presses his lips together. Obviously, Rust got the wrong idea. A lot of the guys are pretty physically affectionate, even if Sid isn’t usually the type to seek out touch. Heck, if he’s in the right kind of mood, Horny will try to shampoo guys’ hair for them in the showers after a win. Sid has seen Flower and Tanger peck each other on the cheek before leaving on long breaks. It’s fine if sometimes Sid needs Geno to just. Hold him down. 

They weren’t even horizontal or anything! Jeez! 

“Come back, hug me,” Geno nudges Sid, and then manipulates him back into the right position, with his back along the cool, painted cement wall and Geno crowded all around him. 

Sid blows out a sigh and nuzzles his face against Geno’s warm shoulder. His eyes close and he feels the calm start to return. Sid is a lot wider than Geno, but something about the height buoys him. Geno’s middle—the bit of softness over sleek muscle—is definitely broad enough to hold when Sid curls his fingers there. “Is this too weird?” Sid asks, mostly muffled into the cotton of Geno’s shirt. 

“Maybe little bit,” Geno admits. He uses his weight to push Sid further against the wall. “But who he tell?”

“He’s probably telling all the other young guys right now. On their group chat or something.” Gossip is so much easier to spread around the locker room than it used to be. Sid was just figuring out group texting when chat apps came along and made all of it mostly irrelevant knowledge. 

“Okay, but who believe?” Geno hums. 

Sid grumbles at him. It’s fine if the rookies know. Whatever. They’ll mostly just give each other knowing looks and giggle a bit. It’s the older guys that Sid doesn’t want to know. He’ll never hear the end of it.

Although he’ll definitely maintain that this is absolutely acceptable, normal teammate behavior, and not the worst thing any of them have seen. It’s just a hug. For fuck’s sake.

“Shh,” Geno says, squeezes Sid a little and slips a leg forward so he can take some of Sid’s weight. “Worry so much, always. Let me hold some things.” Sid sighs again, and lets himself drift. He’ll deal with it later.


	6. university students

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: studytime crush.

_Anonymous asked: pick one of the aus/tropes you think about in the shower/when trying to fall asleep (bc lbr we all do it) aaand go_

(posted on June 5, 2017)

* * *

There’s a man who sits by the wide window on the fourth floor of the campus library every Monday afternoon. Evgeni is a little bit in love with him. It’s the way he stares at his papers like he can light them on fire. It’s the way the powdered sugar of his 10-Timbit snack clings to his full, pink lips. It’s the way he sweeps away his dark hair when its curls flop upon his forehead, like an afterthought. It's his bad beard and his plain black sweatshirts and his jeans that are one sharp movement from splitting at the seams.

On Monday afternoons at the library, it’s hard for Evgeni to parse the clever rhymes of the old Russian poetry he’s supposed to be analyzing for his thesis, let alone translate his thoughts into English. 

One of these days he’ll talk to the man with the window-side study slot and see if he wants a coffee for his donuts, or if he’s more of a tea person, like Evgeni. He’ll ask about what fills the books on the table and the curious corridors of his mind. Because some time soon the words will trip off Evgeni’s tongue like birdsong, even if he’s having a conversation with a handsome man in the library while the British Colombia afternoon drizzles outside like so much spattered silver against the glass of the fourth floor. And then he’ll know that burning gaze, those sweeping hands, those sweet lips.

“Do you have an phone charger?” And suddenly the man is in front of him, breaking Evgeni out of his reverie of repetitions. 

“Yes,” Evgeni says, but doesn’t move to fetch it. Instead he’s trapped by the face he’s only ever seen in profile. There’s a sort of intensity to the man’s movements, like he’s ready to pounce at any moment. He’s some kind of elegant beast, the likes of which Evgeni has never encountered before. 

Then the man shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Can I borrow it? My phone’s dead.”

“Sure,” and Evgeni tears his gaze away, but only barely. He rummages through his bag, feeling around for the right wire and prickling with heat at his neck the longer the damn thing doesn’t just vault into his grasp. When he finds it, his keys and a few pencils come springing out of his bag with it. He holds it out to his library infatuation. 

“Thanks,” says the man. “I’ll bring it back, but if I forget, uh. Come find me? I’m always here on Mondays for a couple hours.” 

_I know_ , Evgeni doesn’t say. “It’s no problem.”

“I’m Sidney,” he says. 

“Evgeni,” he replies. 

“I’ll let you get back to work, then,” Sidney says, and returns to his table.

And Evgeni says, “No problem,” again, though it’s mostly to the universe at large this time. Except Sidney might end up being a _big_ problem if Evgeni can’t get back to writing after watching Sidney walk away.


	7. conversations at 3am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: suggestions of romance.

_Anonymous asked: for your prompts: talking at 3am_

(posted on June 6, 2017)

* * *

Sid’s phone buzzes just after his bedside clock flicks over to 3:18 AM. He shouldn’t encourage it, any so-late-it’s-early nonsense, but he’s been staring at his dark ceiling for a lifetime. So he rolls across the bed and flips his phone over to see who texted him in the middle of the night. 

He read somewhere that it’s better to turn your cell phone off when you’re sleeping. It’s probably good advice to follow.

_slap chop worth money?_ Geno’s message reads.

_not really. a knife is actually quicker to use_. Sid places his phone back face-down when the text is sent. Most of the time when Sid replies to Geno's texts of inane questions about ridiculous products on TV, he won’t get a response back. At this point in their relationship, Sid is pretty resolved to one-sided conversations about the absurdity of American hyper-capitalism because he's full of trivia and opinions while Geno just wants to spend his money frivolously. The most frustrating ones are when Geno sends him a picture of something horrendous and Sid doesn’t know whether Geno is asking for advice or trying to get compliments, until Sid inevitably finds something like two ass-ugly iron statues standing sentry outside Geno's house.

Then his cell is buzzing again, this time with a phone call, and Sid spares a second of grief for the good-night’s sleep he is definitely not getting now, even if it was already a hopeless cause. 

“Hey, G,” Sid says. If he lies on his side, he’s found he can put the phone between his cheek and the pillow and not have to worry about holding it. “Why’re you up so late?” 

“I’m just think too much,” Geno replies, his voice distorted down the line, thick with the slow molasses drip of the late hour. “Why _you_ up?” 

Sid doesn’t have a good excuse. He’s usually a champion sleeper. He hesitates over the right way to describe his temporary insomnia. “I keep trying to predict the future, I guess.” 

“Your future, my future, all hockey,” Geno says, like it’s more than just a fact–that it’s destiny; the summing up of a timeless legend in one single phrase.

And if only it were so simple. “Hey Geno?” Sid asks, and Geno hums in his ear. For all that the wonders of technology make his tone sound foreign, Sid could just as well be lying right on top of Geno, cheek to cheek. With his phone tucked under his head, the discussion seems so intimate and tender. “What would you do, if it weren’t for hockey?” 

“Work in factory, in Magnitogorsk,” Geno’s response is so quick and easy that Sid is shocked. He feels almost betrayed that Geno could just whip out an answer to that question, which has always stumped Sid. “Be like girl in _Flashdance_. Steel worker.”

Sid has to laugh at that. “Are you trying to tell me you’re secretly really good at dancing?” 

“You want I show you water chair dance, only have to ask,” Geno says. “Everyone want to see, but I’m do private dance just for world’s best hockey player, no charge.” 

Sid’s cheeks heat, but he smiles anyway. “Oh yeah? Guess I’m pretty special then.”

“Yes.” 

He basks in that for a while—Geno’s unsubtle brand of genuine affection. He feels blessed, in a way, that Geno would text him about infomercials on a rare night when neither of them can sleep. Sometimes their edges don’t seem perfectly matched, but they have each other regardless. There’s safety in that. Comfort.

“I love you, Sid,” Geno says as Sid’s about to drift off, and it wakes Sid up just enough to feel a mix of joy and embarrassment at the statement. But he can sense the honesty in it, and it’s not the first time he’s heard it from Geno. It’s no longer a confession, but an assurance—he’s heard it on the ice and on charter planes and over dinners and across the oceans and continents. It means _you and me and hockey forever._ There’s nothing he wants more, even if the future is always uncertain.

“I love you, too,” Sid replies, pushing as much emotion as he can into the phrase. “Good night,” he tells Geno, as he finally slips off. 

“Good night.”


	8. khl lockout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: implied NHL bullshit, pre-romance, Magnitogorsk.

_Anonymous asked: Hey, it's kinda a bad day today, and I would really like some Sid/Geno fluff. For the prompt, what if Geno have to go back to Russia, and Sid doesn't really like it, so he says 'fuck it' and follow Geno to the KHL? Ps. I love your writing ❤️_

(posted on June 6, 2017)

* * *

After all that time on the phone with his agents, his lawyers, his family, the insurance people, his sponsorships, the Penguins’ staff, the Team Canada staff, the Metallurg staff, and even the _damn Prime Minister_ , it’s not until too late that Sid realizes that his limited Russian is definitely not going to cut it. He should’ve taken lessons—even though there’s been no time, because even after all the phone calls to _get_ here, he’s still also had to attend a thousand-and-one meetings between the NHL and the NHLPA all summer long and into September. And although most of the signs in the Moscow airport had been in English and Sid managed his connecting flight to Magnitogorsk just fine, it’s once he’s there that he comes to the abrupt conclusion that he’s lost as all hell. 

Sid knows how to swear a blue streak in Russian because he’s been playing with Geno for well over a decade. He just absorbed it through proximity. 

On the other hand, he definitely didn’t absorb any decent amount of Cyrillic. 

The translation app on his phone saves him, barely. 

It’s not Geno who picks him up at the baggage carousel, but a representative from the hockey club. Sid had been hoping, but…well, Geno is probably at practice, or maybe even getting ready for a game. He looks at his watch, which merely offers him the time in New York: a crisp 3:30 AM. No wonder he feels like his eyes are full of sand. Fuck. 

“привет, Mr. Crosby. We welcome you to Russia,” the rep says, offering her manicured hand for Sid to shake, and introduces herself as Maria. She’s a lot like the support staff at any of the teams Sid has been on since he could skate, all efficient heels and single-button blazers, but the difference is that after her professional greeting, the English quickly degenerates into a jumbled collection of nouns and verbs. 

She guides him towards a team van, emblazoned with the Metallurg logo in splashes of bright colour. Sid piles his bags into the back of it—his gear, his suits, and enough clothes to last him until Olympic training begins in PyeongChang, at least. Maria drives him straight to the arena, and offers the most scant tourist guide to the city until eventually she runs out of things to say and falls quiet. 

Maria turns on the radio instead, and fills the vehicle with loud Russian pop. “Good song?” she asks, and Sid nods even though he wouldn’t have an opinion to offer anyways. 

The arena is huge and squats boldly, clearly the newest building in the area, and far removed from the apartment buildings across the street. Maria parks the van and tells Sid to bring his stuff. They don’t go in the front doors, but through a player’s entrance around the back of the arena. Remarkably, there’s no media except for a single photographer who snaps a dozen shots when Sid greets the management team with a handshake and a smile. Their English is not superb either, but the sentiments translate easily. They’re happy Sid is there and excited about the skill and knowledge he can bring to the club. 

Someone takes his equipment from him and the group disbands as quickly as it formed. Maria explains that he’s under no expectation to play at the game tonight or on the weekend as she leads him down a series of hallways. Eventually they end up near the locker rooms. “You go live—Malkin?” 

“Yes, is that okay?” Sid didn’t even think about having to stay in player’s dorms. He’d assumed that he’d stay wherever Geno is staying—his summer home, or with his parents—but he never actually asked. His correspondence with Geno had been a handful of texts just to say he was coming. 

“Okay,” says Maria, smiling, “Evgeni very best English.”

“Yeah, he—” 

“Sid!” Geno comes barreling out of the locker room, and has his arms around Sid before he can even react, lifting him an inch off the ground with the force of his hugging. 

“Geno!” Sid replies, unable to help the grin that feels like it’s going to split his face. “Hey, hi. Here I am.”

“Finally,” Geno says, and puts him down. His hair is damp from a shower, but he’s dressed. He’s wearing the same clothes he wears in Pittsburgh—the long-sleeved black shirt and sweatpants which just barely come to his ankles. His locker sandals are even Penguins ones. Something deep in Sid’s chest settles into place, and his exhaustion from the travel, language-related culture shock, and no small amount of jetlag sifts down through him until it’s no longer headache-inducing. “You take so long I thought I’m die before you get here. Do too much planning. You should have just come in summer. So much boring contract things when we could have gone vacation everywhere.” 

Sid feels himself brighten to the buff of familiar chirping. “Next time I’ll come as your carry-on, then.”

“No,” says Geno, trying to keep from smiling, and failing, “Make you sit with hockey bag in cargo instead.” 

* * *

The game is wild.

It’s been a long time since Sid has sat to watch a game when he wasn’t completely miserable and injured. The crowd is loud and engaged with the game, raucous in their Metallurg jerseys. It was probably the wrong decision, business-wise, to sit with Geno’s parents instead of in the owners’ box, but he’s glad he did. They’re there for Geno and him alone, and Sid doesn’t have to try to make pathetic small talk with the Malkins like he would be forced to with team staff. Their enthusiasm is completely biased on one player, and the Malkins’ pride is so refreshing. Geno is up on the big screen often, with his teammates around him and the K pinned over his heart, shouting when the team scores. 

And Metallurg wins the game.

Geno is in a fantastic mood when Sid meets back up with him after he’s found his way through a few surprise autographs to kids who can only say _please_ and _thank you_ and _Sidney Crosby_. But kids are kids no matter what country Sid is in, and their wide-eyed joy is universal. Of course, Geno signs far more things than Sid is asked to. He takes the time to converse with all the children, to stand for photos with them, and he pats each on the head before they scurry off to their families. 

“I tell them if they want play in America like me, they have to work hard at school,” Geno tells him as they slowly progress to the parking garage. 

Sid snorts. “Oh _yeah_? Is that what you did?”

Geno rolls his eyes. “They not know. Is still good advice.” 

The car that Geno has in Magnitogorsk is more obviously flashy than the one he has in Pittsburgh. It’s a wonder he can fold his long limbs into its sporty confines. Still, Geno’s mood is catching and Sid doesn’t mind the ride, even when Geno drives it recklessly fast out of the Arena’s lot and down the road. Sid can’t wait to hit the hay for the night, but he could still use a bite to eat. “Is there any of your mom’s pelmeni left from lunch?” Sid asks. 

“I’m show you best place in town,” Geno says instead, weaving through traffic. 

And Sid should have known better than to trust Geno on his suggestions when they roll up outside some very familiar golden arches. 

“Geno!” Sid protests, though feeling oddly affectionate. “A fucking McDonald’s?”

“What?” Geno squawks, turning the key out of the ignition and tugging off his seatbelt in one smooth movement. “Two in town—this best one!”

“I didn’t come to Russia to eat at McDonald’s.” He smacks Geno on the arm, a little pointlessly as he climbs out. 

“In a month when you homesick for big fish dinner and there’s none, you be begging me, _Geno, Geno, take me McDonald’s_ ,” Geno’s imitation is a little unflattering, “Then you see.” 

Sid was pretty determined to get the full Russian experience, but his resolve is crumbling the longer they stand in the parking lot as the smell of burgers and fried potatoes wafts around them. “Aren’t I the guest? Don’t I get to decide what we eat for dinner?”

“Yes,” Geno says, straight-faced. “You pick anything you want on menu. I’m buy.” 

* * *

After they’ve sufficiently filled themselves with junk—it’s similar but not quite the same as in North America—Geno doesn’t seem in a big hurry to get home. Sid also feels sluggish and makes no serious effort of prodding Geno towards the door. Nothing about the day has really set in yet. There’s some kind of fog seeping around the edges of his mind that gives everything a haziness, which Sid can recall from other big moments in his life. This is the lockout where he gets to actually keep playing hockey outside of pickup games with whoever is around, but he’d still rather be playing with Geno back home than here. Although, to be totally fair, it’s far past his due to be feeling overwhelmed in a strange country just to keep doing what he loves. Geno has been doing it for long enough.

For some reason this year he couldn’t stand being away from Geno. As the summer passed and contract negotiation stalled, Sid felt himself longing for Geno. It could be the aging thing. Neither of them know which year could end up being their last, but the injuries come easier than they used to and it’s a lot harder to stay in shape. Sid’s just trying to soak up as much time with Geno as he can. So he came to Russia, of all places. 

“Maybe you call me Zhenya here,” Geno says, interrupting his thoughts.

“Are you sure that I should?” Sid asks, and Geno nods slowly as if he’s unsure himself. “I don’t know if I _can_ call you…that.” His tongue trips up before he can say it. 

“Nicknames is hockey thing, but also Russia thing,” Geno reasons. “If you don’t say, maybe guys think we not close friends and cause problem. They like me best, of course, so bigger problem for _you_.”

“I’ve always called you Geno, though. That’s a nickname, isn’t it?” It’s no secret that Sid is reluctant to change things, but he’d thought a change in location wouldn’t necessitate a change in routine, too. 

“Just try, come on,” Geno encourages. “Promise I’m not joke if you sound bad. Important to learn Russian if play in Russia.”

“Zhenya,” Sid says. He butchers the pronunciation and blushes. 

“Again,” Geno prompts. “ _Zhenya_.” He says it a little slower, like Sid just not hearing him was the problem.

“Zhenya,” he tries, mostly the same. 

“Little softer. Like you like me, Sid.”

Sid tries again, thinking of how Geno’s mom says it and how Gonch says it and trying to find the place in between. It feels ungainly in his mouth, but he’s determined. “Zhenya,” he says.

Geno doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops to–to Sid’s mouth, and he stops breathing. 

“Geno?” Sid asks, “What? Was it that bad?”

He manages to shake himself out of it, whatever it was. “No, uh,” Geno clears his throat, “Maybe not so good. Is okay call me Geno.” 

But Sid is not buying it. “ _Zhenya_ ,” Sid says again, taking a chance.

And Geno turns pink. Just a little bit.

* * *

“Zhenya, _yes_!” Sid shouts as he latches onto Geno after a perfect goal—a clean shot right over the goalie’s shoulder; an overtime beauty in Sid’s first game with Metallurg. The rest of the team comes crashing around them, a vortex of happiness. He feels half-tempted to do _something_ …well, he doesn’t know. Something good, anyways, but then they’re overtaken by Russian exclamations of pure joy, and in the midst of it all, Sid thinks _there’s no rush_.

He’s got time if Geno’s right here with him.


	9. married, with children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: children, established relationship, Flower's POV.

_Anonymous asked: If you're still taking prompts: sidgeno established with their children, from outsider pov? :) I'm obsessed with your writing!_

(posted on June 6, 2017)

* * *

The Crosby-Malkin triplets are terrifying in so many ways. They’re all fiercely competitive, multi-talented, straight-A kids who can speak three languages. It’s hard for them to get along with other children and they have a knack for making adults look foolish. Vero swears she once walked in on them taking apart Cath’s bullet juicer, wires and motor parts lying in organized rows on the marble counter top, but but then later found it reassembled and the triplets outside face-deep in watermelon slices like nothing ever happened. They create ball-hockey plays the likes of which Marc-André has never seen. 

“How do you manage to keep them out of trouble?” He asks Sid, who is tucked up under Geno’s arm, easily content like he’s always belonged there.

Sid shrugs. “We put them in a lot of classes.” 

“And we have playroom at home,” Geno adds, and yeah, Marc-André has _seen_ that fucking mad scientist laboratory. “They still sleep and eat, help out with chores. No problem for us.” 

Marc-André seriously doubts that, because as they speak, the triplets are currently waging war on the rest of the kids at the barbecue with a full artillery of Super-Soakers. They don’t seem like the store-bought kind. “Look, I love your kids and they’re always welcome, but the place is never the same when they leave—in a bad way—and you can’t tell me you don’t spend every waking moment trying to keep them from lighting the world on fire. And what happens if they burn out? What if the whole baby-genius thing doesn’t stick with them after puberty?” 

Sid and Geno share a look. “We don’t put any expectations on them, Flower. They love to face the world head-on and we want to create an environment that fosters that, but if they grow into average people, that’s okay too.” 

Geno unhooks himself from around Sid and kisses him on the cheek. “I go stop them from kill garden,” he says to Marc-André, and walks off to avert the inevitable disaster.

It’s about as much as could be expected from a family that Sid and Geno started. “Sid, I don’t mean it as a criticism. We’re all fascinated by it and… _proud_ , really. Everyone thought your kids would be all quiet and weird like you.” 

At that, Sid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. And all with huge butts, too, I guess?” 

“Give it time,” Marc-André replies, “They’ve got G’s chicken legs for now but once one of them settles into hockey—look out!” 

Sid smiles and shoves him. He appears a lot more settled, lately, although it seems impossible for anyone to be as content as Sid is with three little hyper-intelligent monsters running around. 

In the distance, Marc-André hears Geno yelling: “Hey, no head shot! High-stick, two minute penalty!” There’s a chorus of laughter, and then Sid sighs and gets up to go intervene.


	10. prince geno / ambassador sid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: mention of politics, flirting.

_Anonymous asked: prompt: royalty au or famous/not famous au_

(posted on June 8, 2017)

* * *

The Canadian ambassador greets the Prince Evgeni of Russia with a formality that borders on disinterest. His suit, Evgeni notices, is as impeccable as his manners—black jacket, black shirt, black tie, and black pants which threaten to tear apart at the seems. The only splashes of colour are the tiny Canada flag on his lapel, and the shining golden tie pin. He’s not wearing a pocket square of any kind, although that’s the style these days, and his hair is gelled into a perfect wave. 

Evgeni wants to mess that all up, because Sidney Crosby, Canadian ambassador, has a steely flint in his eyes that could probably spark anyone to blazing. 

Canada is there as a mediator between Russia and the U.S., representative of a peace that can perhaps be brokered after a decades-long impasse of two nations with historically different ideals. Evgeni is meant to be the voice for Russia’s people, whereas the democratically-elected presence should look after the political and economic needs of the country—and so the U.S. had been allowed to bring two politicians as well. Thus, the need for a neutral party. And it was true that Canada was technically far from neutral, but the ambassador could speak both languages and generally would seek compromise and balance. 

The meeting ended for the evening with no solution, and Evgeni had been no help for all that he stared at Crosby in his crisp, dark attire. He spent hours writing nonsense cyrillic on his legal pad and occasionally offered a non-committal hum. 

Crosby is very young for an ambassador. The last one from Canada had been a balding, grey, crotchety man who wore both suspenders and a belt. Evgeni had met him twice before he retired to an estate in lower Ontario for which the Russian monarchy had gifted a penny fountain. This was the first time Evgeni was meeting with Crosby, and over a semi-formal dinner with several important Russian and American delegates, it’s hard to keep his mind from wandering. 

“You can call me Sidney, if we’re in a setting such as this,” he tells Evgeni when they’re alone in a hallway. Evgeni was returning from some fresh air, and Crosby— _Sidney_ had met him with an expression far warmer than he had shown thus far. His mouth was a little crooked when he smiled, and it brought out the apple-blush of his cheeks. Sidney’s Russian isn’t perfect, but it’s endearing nonetheless. 

“Then you can call me Evgeni. Or Zhenya, should you like to.” They might as well skip to the nicknames. 

“I’ll do no such thing, Your Highness,” Sidney replies, “As I’d lose my job.” Then he steps daringly closer, until the toes of his shoes touch Evgeni’s. He leans across the rest of the space between them. His breath is sweet with wine as he whispers, “But maybe if we were somewhere more private than this, I might consider it.”

He steps away just as quickly, and with another charming grin, turns and walks down the hall. Evgeni watches him go, tracking his confident movements—how he slides his hands into his pockets and the black fabric of his pants stretches over his ample ass. And Evgeni should be able to chase after Sidney. He _is_ a prince, after all. But, right. They have peace to wage. 

Maybe after it’s all done, he can pay some visits to the embassy, with roses or desserts. Or nice watches or fine wines. Box seats to a KHL game—Canadians enjoy hockey, of course. Whatever Sidney likes, really, Evgeni would be more than happy to accommodate. There’s no reason for the prince _not_ to have a superb relationship with Canada’s delegation. 

Well, in any case, Evgeni is certainly more enthused about finishing up this whole Russia-U.S. business than he was before.


	11. ink runes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: magical realism, marking, fairly mild sexual content, love.

_creatures-of-narrative asked: (this is Dana from Knifeshoeoreofight, btw.) If you're still taking short prompts, how about the hockey rpf staple of magical realism? Like, curses, wishbabies, transformations, de-aging. Whatever strikes your fancy? But also, maybe, mutual pining, or confession of feelings?_

(posted on June 9, 2017)

* * *

Sid doesn’t ink his skin before a game. 

He tried it once for a practice and had such a hard time finding the back of the net that he ended up as Mustache Boy for a miserable month. It’s not that inking messes with his superstitions (although it probably would) but rather that something about his constitution rejects the benefits of runes. All runes cause him bad luck—even the most basic ones that protect against illness or boost happiness do fuck-all for him. He’ll start itching as soon as the quill touches his skin and that’s really the least of it. If he were to really ink something potent, it’d probably cause some sort of career-ending injury. So he just doesn’t. 

It isn’t a big deal because he can win without it. People will call him a cheater and a whiner whether he has runes or not, but what matters is the success of the team, and he can help them on his own power. 

He does kind of admire the marks on others, though. 

All the Penguins have different ways of creating runes, passed down by their cultures and the playing styles of their junior-years teams. The French-Canadians’ blossom into blue fleur-de-lis patterns that curl with intent, which Sid can still translate but wouldn’t be able to ink without practice anymore. The Americans’ have lines that sprawl and end with sharp red edges, an exclamation of power and a plea for speed. All the Europeans’ have ink that Sid can’t read at all, but are uniquely stunning, from sweeping and complex to minimalistic yet infinitely diverse. And even within their hockey heritage, every player has their own twists on a theme. Sid really loves Geno’s. 

“Stop stare,” Geno complains, a glass-tipped quill in his hand as he scribbles onto his ribs after he’s showered everything else away post-game. 

“Sorry,” Sid says, but he’s not. Geno’s handwriting is atrocious, and yet his inkwork is all steady loops and symmetrical florals. His ink for games is almost lace-like in its intricacy. The one he’s forming now, though, Sid thinks is for some kind of relaxation. A good night’s sleep, maybe. A worry-free rest. Sid knows he’ll be tracing the design in his mind later tonight. 

He kind of wants Geno’s ink runes on himself. It’ll itch like fuck, but Geno’s already under his skin half the time. It wouldn’t be to much of a difference. Geno could scrub the drying pigment away later with a cloth, before it could do much damage. Or he could lick it off. 

“ _Sid_ ,” Geno says, and this time Sid actually tears his focus away. 

“Whoops,” he says, and actively gets up to move himself away. “Sorry.” Geno’s ink patterns swirl in his head. 

Geno smiles at him, a little warmly, and Sid’s stomach swoops like he’s flying head-first off a hip check. “You always looking. Is sad, have no runes?”

Sid shakes his head. “I wouldn’t call it sad. Just. I’m curious, I guess.”

Geno tugs his wrist until Sid sits back down, and he sets his quill aside. Then he pushes Sid’s sleeve up and uses his finger to trace lines upon the sensitive skin of the inside of Sid’s elbow. He’s inking Sid, in a way, but Sid doesn’t recognize the rune at all. “Feels like this,” Geno says. It feels like it tickles but also it makes Sid’s heart pound. “Or more like,” Geno puts his finger in his mouth and then draws wet, shining trails on Sid’s arm, “Kind of this. But more pointy, like pen.” 

Sid shudders and feels _something._ It could be the rune or it could be just Geno. Sid doesn’t often let himself want, but it isn’t really something he can help, when it’s Geno. “It’s nice. It feels good.” 

“Yes?” His damp finger dips and then curves up, before it lifts off Sid’s skin. Geno is still holding his arm with his other hand, though. 

“Yeah,” Sid says, and looks up into Geno’s eyes. He doesn't want Geno to let go. “Geno, I–”

“I know, I think,” Geno murmurs, “But don’t tell me today. Wait, please. I’m not ready.”

“Okay,” though Sid doesn’t know if he can hold back his confessions for much longer. The ink is only part of it. He doesn’t know if runes made this way, with fingertips, work the same, but his skin doesn’t burn and he doesn’t sense the impending doom. He just feels himself yearn.

* * *

_pantherlover asked: Could I request a continuation of the magical tattoos AU please? I've been DYING to see where that one goes!_

i’m glad you asked! that’s one of my faves actually

(posted on July 11, 2017)

* * *

Sid lies on his stomach on the floor of his living room, head resting on a pillow he’d snatched from his bed. Geno perches above him with wet fingers which he dips periodically into a crystal dish filled with a custom-made ink from a Massachusetts apothecary. It’s a shiny gold in stark contrast to the coal-coloured [marks](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/ea/44/48/ea4448048c86759271452a9cd400ef53.jpg) that twist over Geno’s forearms, though the glittering is all for show. This ink doesn’t make Sid itch because it’s not made with sooty pigment but with zinc and crushed olive and laurel leaves. 

“Sure?” Geno asks him, and Sid sighs face-first into his pillow. 

His skin is tingling with anticipation. He’s already rubbed himself with a thin layer of oil, just in case, but he’s been nervous about it since the package of ink arrived in the mail. Sid wants the marks—wants to feel what difference it makes—but he’s also eager for Geno’s hands on him. They’ve been dancing around each other for a long time.

“I’m ready,” Sid says, and then Geno dabs a single fingertip on his shoulder, like testing the waters. Sid lets out a breath, and nods. “Go for it.”

Geno moves sweeping movements at first, a pass up his spine and then wings around his shoulder blades. He makes two symmetrical lines down Sid’s arms, from the top of his shoulders to his ring fingers. Then Geno pauses again. “Feels okay?” 

That much, just those few movements, has Sid’s cock stirring in his pants. He’s grateful he opted to lie on his stomach so it’d be pressed into the carpet and not on display for Geno to see it swelling. It’s a pretty inconvenient reaction and he’s glad they didn’t try this somewhere like the rink. “It’s good,” Sid replies in understatement, and that’s enough to get Geno dipping his fingertips back into his crystal bowl again. 

The ink cools as Geno continues, but Sid’s skin feels warm. He’s making some kind of pattern, small but repetitive, every minute drag and loop of it sending shivers of feeling through Sid. Roses and forget-me-nots figure heavily into Geno’s [ink](http://shop.a-la-russe.de/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/ANNA_Gruen_Schal-Tuch-a-la-russe-wolle-blumen-blumenmuster-geblumt-pawlower.jpg) markings for game days, but whatever he's doing couldn’t hold the same detailed subtlety. The brushing of Geno’s calloused fingers is too broad for quill-work.

“What are you inking?” Sid wonders aloud, trying to picture the design in his mind’s eye as he drifts in the sensation of Geno's hands on his body.

“Easy thing,” Geno says, “Teach to children when learning. Copy teacher’s shapes until it’s perfect.” 

Sid imagines a young Geno, studious about everything that could benefit his hockey progress but surely bored by the prospect of inking patterns until the shapes of it became rote. It’s a charming picture.

“What you practice? Or did they not make you?” The movements of Geno’s fingers are lulling Sid, making his mind go fuzzy, and it takes a second to surface the memory. 

“No, I still had to learn,” Sid says, remembering the pages and pages of it, trying not to turn his lines into figure eights or crescents, struggling to be patient when it scarcely mattered. “We inked fish. Just like—” He draws the pattern on the carpet, recalling even now the loops and crosshatched lines.

Geno copies one of the fish onto Sid’s back, and then resumes his own markings. “Fish…lobster, too? Boats?” 

Sid laughs, because they actually did, but by then Sid had lost interest and started drawing hockey sticks on his practice paper. He was never any good at mark-making. A quill never moved easily in his hand. When he was at Shattuck and hit with a competitive streak he tried to improve his chicken scratch, and by the time he was in Rimouski he could pen some more complex things. It took him forever, though, and he was always working on paper, not skin. 

The movements of Geno’s marking stop for a moment, and then suddenly Geno is straddled over Sid’s hips, pressing down, and Sid splutters and gasps. “Sorry,” Geno grunts, “Need a little—” he trails his fingers down Sid’s sides, dry of ink but still a bit tacky, and he rocks and clenches his thighs. “What’s word?” 

“Uhhh,” Sid says smartly, Geno’s movements rubbing Sid’s dick against the floor, “Fuck, I don’t know.” 

“ _Wiggle room_ ,” Geno says and then wets his fingers with golden ink once more.

* * *

_Anonymous asked: more??? magical??? tattoos??? AU??? pleeeeeease. i love the idea of geno with the pretty tattoos described and him drawing on sid. and you can't just LEAVE us with that cliffhanger ending u just did im so unfulfilled i want mooooore please )))))_

wouldn’t want to leave you unfulfilled, anon

(posted July 11, 2017)

* * *

The ink marks are finished, dry and flaking because it wasn’t made to be steadfast. With Sid now on his back, it’s probably rubbing off into the carpet, making a fucking mess. And Geno is laboring between his thighs, grinding against him in tight circles and panting with his face tucked beneath Sid’s jaw. His hands are gold with ink up to the wrists, and he's smudging it everywhere he can reach.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Sid gasps. He can’t come like this; he’s barely holding on. “Please, Geno, just—” Geno’s tongue flutters against his neck and he breathes over the wetness. “Just kiss me already.” He’s waited long enough.

“ _Yes_ ,” Geno sighs, and then his mouth is on Sid’s, hips rocking in a maddening rhythm. He licks into Sid’s mouth like a quill in an inkwell. Sid gives back as good as he gets. 

* * *

“I think it work,” Geno says approvingly, later, when Sid feels fucked-out and they’ve migrated two feet over to the couch. Geno passes a warm, damp cloth between Sid’s shoulders, gently washing away the rest of the residue. Sid tosses the towel onto the coffee table when he’s done and then bullies Geno into a recline. He’s never been one for afterglow before, but if Geno doesn’t hold him, Sid is going to go out of his mind. 

He rests his head on Geno’s t-shirt and traces the dark lines on his arms as if he can read their purpose. Geno nuzzles Sid’s hair and drops kisses among the curls. There's a gold all over both of them. 

“I really like this,” Sid says, meaning the ink, the snuggling, the seven-petal flower on the inside of Geno’s wrist and how its stem follows the vein. 

“And you like me?” Geno asks, a hint of hopefulness in his tone. 

Sid loves him. It’s too soon to say—they still haven’t talked about it and he doesn’t think either of them are ready—but it’s true. It's been true for long than he's willing to admit to himself, yet. “Eh,” Sid says instead, “You’re alright.”

* * *

_Anonymous asked: Please always feel free to drop more of the magical tattoo au on your "unsuspecting' followers. Like what would happen if there's a rune for bravery of the heart and Sid keeps seeing this new rune and when he finally asks about it G says it's to help him be brave enough to tell Sid how much he loves him. Maybe???_

god, anon, that is _so fucking cute_

(posted on July 12, 2017)

* * *

There’s a white ink mark that resembles a [rose](https://www.thetreecenter.com/wp-content/uploads/augusty-beauty-gardenia-2.jpg), wreathed in a dark, braided, ropy [pine](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9d/Nootka_Cypress.jpg/326px-Nootka_Cypress.jpg), and it rests just below Geno’s collar. It isn’t made with the same twisting patterned lines as Sid is used to seeing. It looks more like the brushwork of a painting than lines of a rune. It doesn’t rub off when Geno cleanses himself after a game and it doesn’t smear when Sid touches it. 

Sid gets kind of obsessed with it. The mark makes his heart skip a beat to see it on Geno’s skin, and Geno looks fondly at him when he traces it with his fingers. He daydreams about kissing it until the flower blushes pink just like Geno does when he’s overwhelmed. He can’t read traditional Russian ink marks, but this one he can almost understand. It’s on the tip of his tongue.

“Is that a tattoo?” Sid asks when the curiosity has been plaguing him for weeks. Geno gives him a quizzical look, so Sid taps Geno on the chest where his mark hides beneath his shirt.

“Oh,” Geno says, “No.”

“But it doesn’t wash off?”

“No,” and Geno smiles like it’s a good thing, the _best_ thing, “stuck there.”

“It’s permanent?” Sid can’t help but catch Geno’s infectious smile. “What does it mean?” 

Geno looks away, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks, and turns a glowy-pink as he presses Sid’s hand down over the mark. “Means _you_ ,” he says.

Sid feels his heart close to bursting, like the sun itself has lit him up from the inside and he can’t decide whether to crumble or melt. Suddenly he doesn’t know what the hell they’re waiting for—it must be something like equality or retirement or the day people stop watching their every move, but all that seems foolish now. What does all that matter? Those days might never come. He’d get down on one knee right the fuck now, only he doesn’t have a ring. What would Geno like? Probably something flashy, something gold and shining, but maybe he’d ink a line around his finger that won’t smudge away. 

“I love you so much,” Sid says, because that’s what he _can_ say now. Marriage is a little—well it’s only been a handful of months that they've been together. It's probably too dramatic to even be considering.

He _really_ wants it, though.

Maybe that’s something to work towards. 

“я тоже тебя люблю,” Geno says, cupping Sid’s face, beaming tenderness in his eyes that Sid barely knows how to handle. It makes him feel cherished. It makes him want to do better. Love isn’t a competition, but Sid could probably dig himself really deep trying to outdo Geno in romantic gestures. There’s no flower mark over _Sid’s_ chest.

“Well obviously, jeez,” Sid scoffs, and Geno starts kissing him all over.


	12. moody geno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: fluff, comfort, stick tape on the floor.

_icosahedonist asked: Prompt: "Huh. I didn't think that would work."_

(posted on June 9, 2017)

* * *

“Geno is in a _mood_ ,” Jake mutters to Sid as he comes back into the locker room to put his taped sticks in his stall. That’s probably a good thing before a game, but Sid can see how it’d probably unnerve the younger guys. Geno is a passionate person and he can either use other guys’ emotions to feed his own or he can build his momentum independently of anything but his own drive. It’s usually a little bit of yelling and a little bit of friendly shoving before he settles into determination. But it’s only the quieter guys in the room right now, so okay, Sid can probably deal with it. It’s still early and he doesn’t want to be ahead of schedule. 

So Sid skirts the Pens logo on the floor and goes to Geno’s side where he’s tearing off square strips of white tape off the roll, letting them drop into a messy pile at his feet where he stands. Sid pushes down the impulse to clean up after him. “Hey, G, what’s up?” 

He gets merely a _grunt_ in response. _Ugh_ , how counterproductive. 

When Sid is upset, he doesn’t want anyone to touch him. In fact, he doesn’t want people to touch him for pretty much any reason that’s not a win-related celebration, but when he’s mad especially. Geno is a different kind of creature. 

Sid puts his hand on Geno’s neck, exposed above the collar of his shirt. He squeezes. Geno stills. Then he looks away from his tape task and instead at Sid, the tense energy draining from his shoulders. “Huh,” Sid says, “I didn’t know if that would work.”

The room empties pretty quickly. 

Geno huffs and drops the roll onto the tape pile, crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits. He ducks his head down. 

“What’s wrong?” Sid tries again, and steps closer. 

“Nervous,” Geno says so softly that Sid’s not even sure _he_ was supposed to hear. 

“Yeah?” Sid asks. He takes Geno’s hat off and puts it gently to the side. “Why’s that?”

“It’s just,” Geno starts, and stops. Sid cards his fingers through Geno’s hair, a little damp from his treadmill run, but mostly soft and wavy and thinner on the top. Geno’s voice is small, and Sid kind of wishes for the blatant irritation to return because it seems more natural. “It’s been long time since I score.” 

“Aw, Geno,” Sid admonishes, “You’ll get it soon. I can feel it.” He traces over the shell of Geno’s ears for good measure, and Geno kind of shivers. 

Then Geno unwraps his arms from around himself and puts his hands on Sid’s hips, draws him in. For a heart-stopping moment, Sid thinks Geno is going to lean down and kiss him. And Sid even tilts his head on instinct, but then Geno just folds around him and rests his forehead on Sid’s shoulder. “Think so?”

“I _know_ so,” Sid says, and it’s awkward to keep petting Geno’s hair from this angle, so he puts arms around Geno’s back to complete the hug. 

And after the hug is done, and Geno seems re-energized in a way that’s going to help him instead of hurt him, he goes bounding off to finish the rest of his routine. Sid is left standing alone in the room, wondering _what the fuck_. Why would he have let Geno _kiss_ him? That’d definitely mess with his game.


	13. secret pinterest account

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: embarrassment, fluff.

_Anonymous asked: Prompt: sidgeno Geno finds Sid's secret Instagram account and it's a collage of pictures if their life together thru Sid's eyes_

i see your instagram prompt and raise you one clandestine pinterest account 

(posted on June 10, 2017)

* * *

“Uh, hey Sid?” Geno calls from the dining room while Sid is putting Pillsbury croissants and slices of turkey bacon into the oven. It’s a monthly tradition for the two of them to get brunch and talk shop. Sid doesn’t feel like signing autographs so he suggested that they just eat at Sid’s house, but that doesn’t mean that he’s some kind of chef all of the sudden. Pillsbury has been his saving grace for years.

He rounds the corner and sees Geno with Sid’s laptop open on the table. The screen is—Sid must’ve left his browser open the last time he used it, because, well, there’s his Pinterest account. “What are you doing?” Sid asks.

“Needed to Google something,” Geno replies and his eyes are like saucers. 

“What’s the _phone_ in your pocket—nevermind,” He huffs, and he wishes he could feel upset that Geno has accidentally snooped, but really what he feels is a boiling soup of shame and embarrassment and maybe a little bit of fear. “Look, that’s just, it’s not, well. Um.”

His Pinterest is tiny and there’s only four boards. The one for hockey gear and the one for kids stuff, those are easily explained. Sid loves hockey. Sid works with kids and probably wants some one day. Those facts are not a secret. And the wedding board is a little weird for your average guy, but not completely shocking, and there’s stranger hobbies for a hockey player to have than browsing centerpieces and flower arrangements.

Then there’s the board full of pictures of him and Geno, together for cellies or promotional photoshoots or candid screenshots from various video sources. Sid just likes to look at it, sometimes. It’s like a touchstone. He feels comforted by the reminder that he and Geno are _in it_ , side-by-side for their whole careers. And, well, all four of those boards combined probably have a certain connotation. It could be too much to hope that Geno won’t pick up on it.

“So when’s wedding?” Geno asks, “For you and me?”

Sid feels positively scarlet. Christ, why won’t the floor open up and swallow him? Maybe he can get traded to the West coast if there’s a team who doesn’t mind the cap hit. Fuck, he’ll work for free. He’ll _retire_ to South America. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” Geno protests, and blessedly closes the lid of Sid’s laptop. “Summer probably easy for us, but Winter good too. Bye-week? All-Star break?” 

“It _sounds_ like you’re making fun of me,” Sid argues. Though Geno is probably completely justified. It’s better than him yelling or throwing things or freaking out otherwise. To an extent, Sid _likes_ being made fun of—just not about this.

“Sid,” and then Geno is cupping his jaw, making Sid look up into his eyes. There’s no ire or disgust there, but it’s hard to trust what he sees when it’s all so improbable. “I want too.”

“We can’t,” Sid’s voice is hoarse so he licks his lips and swallows, “Uh, I can’t just _marry_ you. We should date first.” 

“So we date. Get started right now. Romantic brunch.” Geno’s smile is sunny.

Oh, Christ. “No! I mean we can’t _date_ , either. That’d be a nightmare.” He pulls away from Geno, who frowns. 

“I’m _best_ boyfriend, Sid. Also best husband, but I’m never try before.” 

“Of course you’re the best. But,” Sid’s mind hovers on all the things he’s most afraid of in love, and in relationships. The rotten things people will say about them, how hockey will always be a distraction, his reluctance to commit before he’s absolutely certain. His tongue sticks on their hard frozen truths. Instead he just says, weakly, “It’d be hard.”

“All relationships is hard,” Geno says kindly and takes Sid’s hand. He brings it to his mouth and kisses the knuckles. “It’s when you find love that makes it good.”


	14. post-cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: kissing, the St*nley C*p, definitely boners.

_Anonymous asked: post game celebration_

(posted on June 15, 2017)

* * *

Sid doesn’t know even half of the people at the hotel party, but every single one of them comes up to congratulate him. With the champagne, the beer, the shots, the cake after brownie after cookie he lets himself have, his media facade brightens into something genuine. He doesn’t mind that strangers are clapping him on the shoulder or side-hugging him around the waist. They don’t seem to mind that Sid’s voice goes high and bubbly as the night wears on. 

And of course his teammates are around. He never seems to be without one of them nearby, leaning into his space, running a hand through his hair or squeezing the back of his neck. They’re all champions tonight, so Sid lets them, all too happy to be passed around through the ranks until everyone gets their fill of semi-intimate touching. They’ve earned their clinging for a few hours.

But he does need a break eventually, and he _has_ had a lot to drink. Just five minutes. He slips out of the ballroom and goes looking for the mens’. 

It’s remarkably empty, especially considering that there’s something of a line outside the ladies’ bathroom. He can still hear the thumping bass from the party, but in the restroom there’s a gentle crooning melody that bounces off the tile and high ceiling, singing about heartbreak and country skies. When Sid looks in the mirror, he’s flushed and a little shiny. His beard is unkempt. His hair is sticking up in places. But he feels on top of the world.

He runs into Geno, in the little vestibule that serves as a noise barrier between restroom and hallway. Literally runs into him. 

“Whoops,” Sid laughs, catching himself as he bumps against Geno’s chest. 

Geno looks startled, but settles into a smile. “Hi,” he says, “Funny see you here.” 

“Oh yeah?” Sid jokes. “Well you never know who you’ll meet in the bathroom.” 

He owes so much to Geno this year. Sid is incredibly proud of all the points Geno racked up during the playoffs. Not that it matters—it’s not the trophy any of them wants the most—but he thought the Smythe would go to Geno for sure this time. It was his turn, after all. He almost says as much, but he gets interrupted. 

“Sid,” Geno says, and he’s long-since dropped his steadying hold on Sid's elbows, but Sid keeps his hands where they are, gripping on the soft fabric of Geno’s shirt. “You know picture we kiss Cup together?” 

“Yeah?”

“Little weird, right?” Geno looks hesitant. His face goes from jovial to serious to unease. 

Sid shrugs. “I mean, I guess? It was just for PR.” Sid was too distracted by his elation at the time to worry about how goofy he might’ve looked in all the photo ops. They’ll be countless embarrassing pictures of him taken during the next week, and of the rest of the guys, too. This one wasn’t so bad, surely. At least he wasn’t drunk yet when they took the snapshot, and his unkempt, sweaty hair was covered by a brand new hat. “You didn’t want to take it? You could’ve said no. We could’ve just held it.” 

“It’s not that,” Geno says, shifting on his heels, “I’m just think—didn’t do right, you know. Should kiss at same time.” 

Sid laughs a little. He could understand why Geno would want to make sure they kissed the Cup at precisely the same moment. It seemed luckier that way. “Well we can go kiss it again, if you want? Does it have to be tonight? ‘Cause there are all these people here that I don’t know—”

Then Geno is holding his face and kissing him, warm lips pressed to Sid’s slack surprise, there and gone so fast that it barely seems like it happens. 

“Have to piss,” Geno says as he pulls away, and brushes by Sid into the restroom without looking at him. 

“Okay, see you later.” His voice sounds too-calm in his ears, and he walks out and back to the party without really looking where he’s going. People try to get his attention, but he just keeps moving, not thinking, not knowing where he’s going or what he’s searching for. Sid feels like he doesn’t understand anything anymore. Geno kissed _him_ and not the Cup. And he—he doesn’t know. _Why_ would Geno kiss him? How could he even come up with the idea?

His mind whirls until he sees the Cup again, now an old friend, backlit by the Nashville skyline, and his whole world shudders and rearranges.

* * *

_Anonymous asked: can we get the part two of the post winning celebration 👀_

ha ha yeah, alright :)

(posted on June 27, 2017)

* * *

Sid closes the door behind him. Downstairs, a smaller post-parade party burbles with laughter and conversation, and none of the infectious hollering from earlier in the week. It’s easier to get Geno alone with no rookies to look after and no children to distract him. Geno’s shoulders are up by his ears and he looks away from Sid, standing a safe distance apart. There’s a storm rolling in over the house and the room is cast in shadows.

He should be asking, _Why did you do it?_

He’s been thinking about it a lot since the very-early hours of Monday—about how Geno had kissed him like a reactionary thing and then acted as if nothing had transpired between them. As if Sid’s perspective of the universe hadn’t tilted on its axis and scrambled everything he thought he knew about Geno. The kiss had been so brief that maybe he could’ve blamed it on a drunken fever dream, only it’s not something he could have imagined. The details are blurry, to be sure, but still they’ve been replaying at the edges of his mind for days. Geno’s dry lips, his awful playoff beard, the way the air seemed to be sucked right out of the space between them in the moment it happened; the layered textures of it all are unforgettable, though Sid is pretty certain that he has no interest in losing the memory anyways. 

That kiss has the potential to ruin so many things. Their lives could be destroyed. Sid can’t even really contemplate the sheer reach of devastation that starting something with Geno could bring. They’d hurt other people. They’d probably hurt each other. They could wreck everything they’ve built together in Pittsburgh for over a decade and it would only take moments to do it. Nothing would ever be the same again.

And then Sid thinks: _fuck it_. 

He moves into Geno’s space, and Geno lets him in, lets him wrap his arms around Geno’s waist and pull. Geno melts around him, shoulders relaxing and tension flowing out of his body. Then Sid kisses Geno because he doesn’t want any intention to be lost in translation this time. 

Sid kisses Geno with all that he has, and draws him closer, as close as he can. He tightens his grip around Geno’s middle and wedges between his legs. Geno slides one hand up the back of his neck and into Sid’s hair, carding his fingers through it, making a real mess, and his other hand slides low and clenches on Sid’s ass. He hums into the kiss because he wants it harder, more, and Geno obliges. 

Geno is not a sloppy kisser. Every movement feels like it’s been designed to take Sid apart.

And what’s more is that Geno is so handsome, built in the shape of Sid’s fantasies which he’s kept buried for years: tall, strong, soft to touch and wondrous to hold. 

It’s when Geno grinds against him, hard through his jeans (another of Sid's hidden fantasies), that Sid pulls back, panting a little. Geno doesn’t let him get far. Instead he mouths a wet path down Sid’s neck, sucks kisses back up the same trail, and lips at the shell of his ear as he thrusts their hips together again with his grip on Sid’s ass.

“Waitwait _wait_ ,” Sid gasps, and tries to budge Geno off him to no avail.

“I’m tired of wait,” Geno says in his ear, hot and low.

There’s a flame inside Sid, burning vibrant-bright, but he knows it would be doused if someone came looking for them and found them like this. “I’m not saying stop, just—” Geno sucks at the edge of Sid’s jaw, where he’s been sensitive since his surgery, and his voice breaks on a high moan, “—just hold on.”

“For how long?” Geno asks. He kisses both Sid’s cheeks and then looks at him, cups his face in his big hands. Everything he does is burnished with honesty, and Sid loves that about him. “Be patient, not so easy for me.” 

And Sid doesn’t really want to be patient, either. He wants all of it right now. A big part of him wants to lock the door and let Geno take him apart, piece by piece, and damn the consequences of abandoning the party downstairs. He resists through sheer desire to keep it all under control.

“Cup day?” That’s the first thing Sid can think of, because they both have summer obligations, but he won’t be able to last until training camp. He still needs more time to think, but it doesn’t have to be for an entire season vacation.

Geno kisses him again, this time chaste and full of tenderness. Sid allows it. He even tilts his head to invite another. “Yours? Mine?” 

“Whoever gets it first,” he decides.


	15. flower's return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: no actual Sid/Geno, just sadness about Flower and my own longing for his return to Pittsburgh. I wrote this after Flower was drafted to the Knights and before the Knights turned out to be actually wonderful for him. Bless the Las Vegas Golden Knights for loving Flower like he fucking deserves.

_Anonymous asked: The world in which the expansion is fake news and flower is a penguin? 😭😭😭_

you mean a world in which the vgk doesn’t exist? or a world in which someone _else_ gets drafted? let them have s*stito, i guess, or an imaginary 3rd year who needs a place to be in the regular lineup. or maybe…….they bring flower _back_?

(posted on June 21, 2017)

* * *

Jim works a miracle with the extended salary cap, the good graces of several players, several million dollars, and a few handy trades of eager Wilkes-Barre kids. He brings Marc-André back to Pittsburgh by the end of the Winter Olympics. 

It’s only for a single-year contract with his old paperwork dissolved by the draft. His position with the team is to cover injuries and fatigue through the playoffs, and then next season he’ll transition into head goalie coach by March. He’ll be a Penguin, but it still can’t remain the same as it once was. For his part, Marc-André is cautiously happy. Pittsburgh is his home. The _Penguins_ are his home. He had learned a lot in Las Vegas, but what he wants more than anything is to be back where he belongs.

The locker room blossoms like springtime.

On his first day back, Olli and Rusty and Shultzy tie as many empty water bottles as they can to the back of his flashy Ferrari. Sid hugs him, and keeps hugging him long after the rest of the room has become uncomfortable. Every guy skates by his crease and taps his pads—now grey and gold—more than once throughout practice. Whoops and hollers echo throughout the building. Geno kind of cries. Tanger doesn’t leave his side for even a moment. The media team hasn’t told the fans yet, but Marc-André is excited for that, too. 

Las Vegas is hotter than hell, almost year-round. Marc-André could feel himself dripping like candlewax any time he left the ice. The Strip smells like cheap perfume and even cheaper beer. It’s a city meant for a different kind of player, and he’s certain that they’ll find their balance—their story—soon. 

But Pittsburgh made him the man he is. Pittsburgh gave him his chance. And his second, third, one-hundredth chance. _This_ is the team he wants to help grow. He’ll be their last line of defense for as long as he can, and he’ll keep fighting to get back every time. 

“Dinner at my place?” Sid asks him as everyone shucks their practice gear. “I need a detailed update on Vero and the girls before they get here.” 

“No,” says Geno, “My house, more fun.” 

Marc-André grins, “Well I’ve already told Kuni—” 

Tanger elbows into the conversation, “It’s my job as _best friend_ to host the welcome back dinner.”

“You guys will get your chance but I’ve got first dibs,” Kuni says. Some of the younger guys hover, looking to score an invitation, with obvious smiles on their faces. 

He’s lucky. He’s so fucking lucky that he can be with his team once more. 


	16. flower the prank king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: also no actual Sid/Geno, just my adoration for the king of pranks himself.

_Anonymous asked: First time pens play in vegas flower leaves some kind of prank in the guest locker room as a welcome to his former team. Then every time he blocks one of Sid's sog he makes some kind of comment about Sid replacing him and finding a new travel buddy._

choose this option if you want flower to become king of las vegas

(posted on June 22, 2017)

* * *

“So how’d you do it?” 

Every head turns as Sid skates over to where Flower has been chatting with Murray across the center line. For friends of Sid’s on other teams, they know that on game days he’s all business until the final buzzer. He won’t even look at you unless you’ve got the puck on your stick, no matter what you say to him. And here he is, going of his own volition to talk to another player during warm-ups. Well, if anyone could make it work, it was Flower. 

“Do what?” Flower asks innocently. 

Sid clenches his jaw, just a little. “You know what.” He shucks his glove, searches his uniform, and snatches something from his sleeve, then holds the tiny, squished thing in his open palm up to Flower. Styrofoam beanbag filling. 

“Tell you what. If you can get a goal on me today, I’ll tell you,” Flower says. 

Sid nods and then skates away, hunting for a logo on the Vegas ice he can stickhandle a puck over. 

“He’s in a good mood today,” Flower muses, watching Sid go. He feels like he’s on the wrong side of the ice, but that’ll fade as soon as the game starts. 

“The guys think he misses you a lot,” Murray says, and shrugs. “But seriously, how _did_ you do it? I mean you filled the room right to the edges? I’m gonna have that stuff in my pads for weeks.” 

Flower grins. “Well if _you_ score a goal on me, I’ll tell you, too.” 

* * *

Sid can’t score a goal for shit. It’s not his fault—Flower knows all his tricks, and his game hasn’t changed that much since the last time they shared the ice. ( _Tanger_ scores a goal on him, and slaps his stick at Flower’s pad on the way back to the Penguins’ bench with a shit-eating grin.) Part of the reason is that Sid’s line just isn’t clicking tonight. Perhaps they’re too nervous to score against an old friend. It’s a bit heart-warming, honestly.

“Tell your kids that it’s okay to try,” Flower chirps after gloving the puck again. Sid makes no indication of hearing him, but at least his lineys look sheepish. 

Near the end of the second, there’s a pile-up in his crease, and a wild scramble to get the play under control. Flower is laughing his ass off until something—some _one_ lands on top of him, and he knows it’s Sid. “Get _off_ me, you heavy motherfucker,” he groans. “No more cake for you.”

“Shoot, shoot!” He chants at Sid at the start of the last period. Then he knocks Sid’s backhander away into the corner where one of his d-men picks it up. “Aw, too bad, so sad.” 

When Sid _does_ finally get a goal, it’s a crazy trick shot. Wraparound, backhand, flipped up above his shoulder, in before he even knew Sid was coming around to receive the puck from Shearsy. Sid does a reserved celly: a small, private fist-pump before his boys crash into him. It’s too little, too late for the Penguins, though. The Knights win it 4-2. 

* * *

“We’re all going out tonight,” Tanger says, dropping by the Vegas locker room after everyone has showered and dressed. The team is very relaxed about visitors. Every game they play is someone’s game against a former team. It might be different next year, but for now, they have a silent agreement to allow all kinds of friends into the room. “Do you want to come with? We need extra hands to keep the babies out of trouble in Sin City.” 

“For a few hours, sure,” Flower says. 

“And Sid wants to talk to you, but he won’t come down here.”

Flower rolls his eyes. “Of course he won’t.” He folds his jacket over his arm. It’s cooling down in Nevada, but it’s nowhere close to reasonable temperatures for this time of year. As soon as they leave the air conditioned sanctuary of the arena, Flower will start dewing up like a glass of ice left in the sun. 

Tanger doesn’t say anything as they walk in silence to the player’s entrance, yet Flower knows exactly what he’s wondering. 

“If you close the doors and use the air vents, and you are very friendly with the cleaning staff,” Flower says, “You can dump fifty-six hundred cubic feet of foam into a room.”

“Nice.”


	17. sharing an umbrella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: fluff.

_Anonymous asked: prompt: attempting to share an umbrella_

(posted on June 21, 2017)

* * *

Sid sticks his hand out into the rain sheeting off the roof of the practice rink, and feels a scowl creep onto his face. When he’d driven in that morning it had been sunny and clear—the perfect spring remedy to a grey, slushy winter. The storm rolled in while he wasn’t looking and then cracked open and poured over the city while he was talking to Dana about replacing his steel a few days early. His car is on the other side of the parking lot. The minutes are ticking by. 

And sure, he could just _leave_ and endure a squishy seat in the Range Rover all the way home. _Right_.

“Big storm,” Geno says, popping up behind him. Sid manages not to jump only by virtue of enduring hockey pranksters for his entire professional career. 

“Yeah. Sucks, right?” He blows out a breath and withdraws his hand, shakes it dry of the rain. “I guess I’m waiting.” 

“Found umbrella,” Geno holds up the umbrella in question, bright pink and edged with vinyl cut to look like lace. 

Sid raises his eyebrows. “You _found_ it,” he says dryly. 

“Borrow,” Geno corrects. “I’m share with you.” 

That startles a laugh out of Sid. It’s clearly a ladies’ umbrella and not meant for sharing. They’d need a golf umbrella to shelter both of them. Or a patio umbrella. Geno is very tall; Sid is rather wide. “We’re not going to fit.”

Geno opens the umbrella outside the door, and then steps under it and waits until Sid joins him. 

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Sid says as they wrap arms around each others’ waists. They get as close to each other as possible without stepping on any toes, and then venture into the parking lot. Sid’s shoulder and arm gets drenched through the fleece of his pullover within seconds. If Sid weren’t wearing a hat, his hair would be coiling itself into unmanageable curls right about now. He giggles the whole damn time until Geno drops him off at his car. 

It takes a lot of maneuvering to get his door open and fling himself into the driver’s seat. He’s not dry, but he’s close enough. Mission accomplished. 

Geno leans into his doorway, the umbrella casting rose-tinted light onto his face, and he kisses Sid, full-lipped and warm and wet. The tip of his nose is a cold contrast against Sid’s cheek. Sid holds the back of his head and drags him in for more when he tries to break away. He needs to get going to a meeting, but he can spare a few more moments. Kissing Geno is his second-favourite thing, after hockey.

“See you team dinner tonight?” Geno speaks the words right against Sid’s lips. 

“Sounds good,” Sid replies. 

“And see you _after_ team dinner?” 

“Yes,” Sid smiles, unable to help it.

“I’m miss you, lately.” Geno pulls a sad face which he must know Sid finds practically irresistible. He’d cross deserts and mountains and oceans to make Geno give him a grin instead. 

“Me too,” Sid says, “But I can’t miss you until you get going. So scoot.” 

He waits until Geno gets into his own car, and laughs as he struggles to close the umbrella without bringing it inside the vehicle. Then they both start their engines at the same time. Geno speeds out of there like always, and Sid can only follow. 


	18. yoga sid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: bendy sex, and a little romance.

_Anonymous asked: so, consider this a prompt if you like, but either way I find if funny and wanted to share: imagine Sid gets into yoga and loves it so much he wants to teach everyone, starting of course with his best buddy Geno. So suddenly G is faced with Sid's derriere in yoga pants doing a downward dog or an easy plow or a cow pose? G almost keeps walking into walls the rest of the day (and maybe is suddenly hit with all these feelings he's been suppressing for years now and that won't stay quiet anymore?)_

i’ve seen a few teams’ yoga days but not the penguins?? chop-chop, penstv!!!

but here’s a little nsfw :)

(posted on June 25, 2017)

* * *

Evgeni swipes his card through his hotel room lock coming back from some late-night cards with a few of the guys. He’s not expecting Sid on the other side of his door. Maybe he should have been, after a fast and loose game against Columbus. Sid is almost as predictable as people think he is.

Sid is on the carpet of his room, his elbows on the ground, back bent, legs spread wide with his ample ass in the air, in leggings so tight that Evgeni can see the faint outline of his balls. He’s not wearing a shirt. It’s quite a vision.

“ _Fuck, Sid_ ,” Evgeni breathes out. Sidney has been giving him all kinds of hell since he added yoga to his exercise regimen. 

“Get over here,” Sid says, and he doesn’t have to say it twice. Evgeni strips out of his shirt and jeans as fast as he can, getting his ankles stuck in his pant legs and nearly tripping over himself in his scramble. He goes to Sid, and squeezes his ass cheeks as much as possible through the straining fabric. Sid sighs something halfway between deep contentment and lusty encouragement, and goes onto his toes to press himself further into Evgeni’s grip. “One track mind, huh?” 

What a tease. “Who, me?” Evgeni keeps his left hand where it is, but uses his other to trace the hard, tender shape of Sid through his yoga pants. 

He can barely keep his hands off Sid most days. Sid is athletic perfection in everything he wears, be it blandly dark suits or an endless parade of Penguins-branded track pants and shorts. He’s thick all over, muscular and strong. Evgeni can hardly remember a time when he wasn’t oft-consumed by thoughts of hauling Sid in by the back of his thighs to straddle Evgeni in his locker stall, on their charter plane, by the poolside, or just about anywhere. He used to wake up aching from dreaming about Sid pressing him up against the nearest flat surface and wrecking him in any way his marvelous mind desired. 

That he gets to do all that now—to touch Sid and feel him—well. The novelty hasn’t worn off at all.

“Well, come on, big guy,” Sid groans as he rolls his hips with Evgeni’s movements, trying to get friction, “You can just get inside me. I’m ready for it.”

Evgeni’s head rushes, a swell of heat, and then he’s on fire from his chest to his thighs. “Get on bed?” He asks, tongue thick in his mouth. He’s going to melt.

And Sid, the absolute demon—“No, right here is fine. Hurry up and get my pants down.” He eases up into a different position, his legs closer together but his hips still too low. Evgeni will have to bend his knees to get inside Sid. 

He eases off Sid’s pants, which is a struggle on any occasion, but especially now as Evgeni’s fingers keep slipping on the task. He can’t pull together two coherent thoughts because all the blood has definitely left his brain and migrated south. He tries to breathe and finds that he can’t do more than shallow gasps. All he can manage is to get the back of Sid’s pants down just enough, and no more than just enough, stretched under the generous curve of Sid’s ass. And then he’s dropping his own boxers, almost tripping again in his haste. With his dick in his hand, standing over Sid’s legs, he asks, “Sure?” He rubs his thumb between Sid's cheeks and feels where he's already lubed himself up.

Sid gasps, “Yeah, do it,” and Evgeni pushes in. 

It’s slick, and hot, and Sid’s knees tremble. Sid was exaggerating his readiness; he’s vice-tight as Evgeni tries desperately to be patient. He holds Sid’s hips still as he sinks in slowly, slowly, and tucks his chin against his chest so he doesn’t cry out at the feeling of Sid clenching around him, drawing him in. Sid buries his faces in the crook of his elbow and makes muffled sounds that could be praise or pleas, his voice high and quavering.

Evgeni bottoms out and doesn’t dare move. He gets his breathing back to something approaching normal. Then Sid is twitching his hips, and so Evgeni pulls out halfway and slams back in, just like Sid loves it.

He keeps the pace as even as he can, but Sid keeps moving, bucking up and twisting. It’s perhaps too difficult when Sid _thrusts_ , and Evgeni loses his balance, toppling over Sid’s back. It drives his cock in further. Sid moans into his arms still folded on the floor, and holds up Evgeni’s weight like it’s barely a burden at all. 

There’s no leverage like this, bowed over with his fingers brushing the ground. He has to rely on Sid to grind his hips up—a motion that’s effective more by his desperation than actual movement. 

“So beautiful,” Evgeni says, now that he’s closer and doesn’t have to worry about being overheard, though he’d yell it from every mountaintop if he thought that was what Sid wanted. “Good for me. Yes, like that, so perfect.” 

Sid whimpers a little, his legs shaking as he tries to find an angle that he’s never been able to get on his own. Evgeni doesn’t want him to collapse onto the floor.

“Please, let me see you.” He eases out and lets his knees take him down. Sid changes his position too, but falls into a bent shape, curled before Evgeni, face hidden. He leans over to kiss Sid’s shoulder, peppering his skin with love. “Let me see, Sid, _солнышкo_.”

He rolls over, cautiously, and his face is flushed scarlet. He’s biting his lips, cherry-like, and Evgeni has to kiss his soft, hot mouth. Sid is gorgeous. He’s perfect. 

Evgeni helps him the rest of the way out of his pants, peeling them down and then rearranging their bodies so Sid is on his back and Evgeni lying between his parted thighs, his thick, flushed cock on display. Sid’s arms are over his head, and Evgeni tangles their fingers together.

Sid says, “I can’t be quiet. Not tonight, Geno, you have to be so careful—”

“It’s okay. I help,” Evgeni says, and he kisses Sid again before pushing in once more. 

Every noise Sid makes, Evgeni laps up with his tongue and swallows like the sweetest honey. He pushes and Sid folds and spreads, opening as the flowers do in spring. Evgeni loves him so much it’s impossible to contain. It all spills out of him and he clings because if he didn’t, he’d shoot up, off into space. Sidney turns him into a celestial object.

Afterwards, he makes Sid get onto the bed with him. As much as that is often their purpose, hotel carpets are not made for fucking upon. The skin on his knees feels sore, and Sid’s back is over-warm to the touch as Evgeni strokes down his spine. But a bed is where he creates some of his best masterpieces, and Sid is Evgeni’s favourite muse. 

“You so bendy,” Evgeni comments appreciatively.

Sid preens, and stretches his leg up and over Evgeni’s waist, but says, “It’s good for your hips. Kiss me again?”

Evgeni does.


	19. buddy cop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: vague plot, a surprise smooch.

_Anonymous asked: SidGeno - buddy cop AU_

(posted on June 26, 2017)

* * *

Officer Crosby liked things by-the-book, and for Zhenya, that was incredibly boring. 

They had been sitting at the patio of a downtown café, waiting for three hours for their mark. Zhenya had followed a ring of exotic pet smugglers all the way from Moscow to Halifax. Here, Crosby was supposed to provide expertise in the area, and translations from English to Russian wherever necessary. Zhenya’s badge and credentials had no sway with the locals, but the Halifax PD was just as interested as he was in stopping the smugglers before they even _considered_ booking tickets to escape into the Rocky Mountains, and so Crosby was on loan to Moscow until the job was done. 

The man took his job too seriously, if it was possible. Sitting outdoors in the sun in plainclothes, he nursed the refills of the same type of plain black coffee for _hours_ while Zhenya went slowly mad from waiting. At least there was an endless supply of cookies to eat, crumb by mind-numbing crumb. He extracted all the raisins and made them into a hill on his saucer.

Zhenya was an action man. 

Crosby was meticulous. And particular. And peculiar.

He was also the most handsome Canadian man Zhenya had ever seen, with full lips and a truly enviable physique. He stared down a job with the kind of focus that could melt iron. He was so faultlessly professional that Zhenya longed to leave him rumpled and panting and flushed. He was simply curious about what Crosby looked like after he'd been wrung out and satisfied, that's all.

“Shit,” Crosby said, breaking their hours-long silence. “ _Shit_.”

Zhenya regarded his wide eyes and clenched jaw, and he tensed to abandon their table. His knee was sore from sitting so long, but he could still run if he had to. “Is our guy?” 

“No. It’s— _shit_ , uh,” he looked at Zhenya, then out to the sidewalk and back again, “I’m sorry. Do you mind? Sorry.”

And before Zhenya could ask, S _orry for what?_ , Crosby was leaning over their tiny table and kissing him. 

A better man may have pushed Crosby away and demanded an explanation. A better cop would have seen it coming and stopped it before it happened. Zhenya was neither in that moment, and instead leaned into it when Crosby grasped him by the back of the neck. He could taste bitter dark coffee on the wet inside of Crosby’s lips, and he turned his head to fit their mouths together. It was a kiss that lasted for several centuries, yet was not long enough. As suddenly as Crosby had moved in, he pulled away. 

“Sorry,” Crosby said again, and now he was awash in a slow, rosy blush.

Zhenya’s whole body buzzed with awareness. He wished for something clever to say. Something that would bring back Crosby’s lips. Instead all he said was, “It’s alright.”

“I saw someone that I knew once, and I wasn’t interested in having a conversation with him.” He crushed a sugar packet in his hand, then flattened it on the table, and crumpled it again. That was all Crosby offered up of himself before his gaze sharpened on someone across the street. “ _There’s_ our guy. Let’s go.” He threw a green bill onto the table and leaped over the short patio fence.

Zhenya followed, but his mind certainly wasn’t on the job anymore.

“Get moving,” Crosby ordered, and cut across the road with barely a glance into traffic. Where had the rule-oriented Officer gone?


	20. can't think straight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: distractions, vaguely-described sex.

_Anonymous asked: Hey, if you're still doing prompts, what about: "I can’t think straight with you this close.” “Sweetheart, the last thing anyone is asking you to do is think straight.” Love you!!_

(posted on July 2, 2017)

* * *

“Geno,” Sid says, half-heartedly pushing the man away from laving the tender spot on his jaw, “quit it.” He has a backlog of emails he wants to deal with before they become insurmountable. Naturally, Geno has other ideas about how they should be spending the evening. It’s not that Sid isn’t interested; the honey-sweet period of their new relationship hasn’t worn off yet. Geno slides his palms over Sid’s shoulders and down his chest, practically hanging off him as he works his mouth with just enough pressure to avoid leaving a mark. “I can’t _think_ straight when you’re this close. Come on.”

“Who ask you think _straight?”_ Geno breathes hot against his ear and Sid shivers. His hand is creeping ever-closer to Sid’s belt buckle, brushing against his stomach, and circling down.

He’s not going to write a reply email to the NHLPA with an erection. He’s _not_.

…So he has to close the lid to his laptop.

“You’re a menace,” he says. “Incorrigible.” 

Geno just smiles winningly when Sid spins his chair around. “You still like me.”

There were a lot of things Sid tried to deny himself when it came to Geno. For the longest time he resisted it, but then Geno had kissed him and the dam had broken and it all came crashing in, irresistible. He’d never had sex in his home office before, but Geno is good at making him try new things. 

And Geno, on his knees between Sid’s legs working his hands and his mouth, is nothing short of miraculous. He makes Sid loud and shameless with it.

“Sweetheart,” Geno praises when Sid has put him on his back on the carpet to return the favour, “ _мой Пряничек_ , so good.” 

Sid can’t translate Geno’s endless pet names, reserved only for when they are alone, but he likes them a lot. They make him feel cherished. It’s too soon to think _I love you, I love you_ , yet Sid thinks it anyways. 

“We should get up,” Sid says afterwards, head pillowed on Geno’s arm with his leg thrown over skinny hips. They’re both still wearing clothes and the floor isn’t really comfortable. It’d be stupid to re-carpet his house with plush shag just because he was too eager to take their activities to the bed down the hall. His cleaning staff certainly wouldn’t thank him for it. 

“Should,” Geno agrees. He loves it when Sid pets his hair, so Sid does, reaching up blindly just to hear Geno sigh. 

“One more minute.” He’ll count the seconds and be responsible about it. Then, he amends, “Maybe two minutes.” 

Geno rumbles sleepily, “Three, four.” 

“Okay five.”


	21. fairytale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: fairytale style, zero research, romance.

_creatures-of-narrative asked: One of them isn't famous+soulbond au. Like one of those where something specific happens when you meet your soulmate. The non famous one won tickets at work or something to go see the penguins and it's seats right on the glass, etc. And if you're not a soulmates/soulbond fan: fairytale au?_

i have a soulmates fichere [chapter 3], although they’re both hockey players (and i know you’ve read it, but just in case people haven’t…)

so here’s some fairytale:

(posted on July 3, 2017)

* * *

At the edge of the waters, where salt and sand danced, lived a young man who was said to have the ice of the North crystallizing in the chambers of his heart. As a child he had been ridiculed relentlessly for his kindness and talents, and so he had begged of a sea witch to seal his soul away within his body that no person could reach him. He did not age, nor did he speak, for blessings and curses both have their cost. 

Every dawn, Sidney would walk down to the shore to bring offerings to the sea witch. Each gift he brought for her was a piece of the land which she could treasure beneath the waves: fine china, precious stones, brightly-coloured glass, pressed bouquets of prized roses, dried meats, wood carvings, or furs. In return, the witch rekindled his spell and littered the beach with pearls and shells and fresh catches of fish. 

The people of Sidney’s village were frightened of his silent, smoky stares. They whispered about the darkness and chill within him. They feared his blank slate of a face. Still, they frequented his market stall for exotic seafood. Sidney favoured gentle-hearted children, and for those who were brave enough, was happy to exchange fish for bits of earthly chintz they had acquired. 

And so this continued for fifty years. Sidney remained unchanged.

* * *

One morning, Sidney went to lay an offering of eagle feathers in the ocean when he was surprised to see someone standing on the misty shore. It was a tall, handsome soldier. He was accompanied by two enormous bear-hounds, one silver and one copper, who both sat patiently at the soldier’s side. 

The soldier watched quietly as Sidney lay his feathers into the foamy surf, only for a shiny salmon and a scuttle of crabs to appear in their place. 

“This is incredible!” Exclaimed the soldier as Sidney scooped up his fish. “Can you show me again?”

Sidney paused, considering the man in his tattered uniform with hair like midnight waves and skin pale as moonlight, who seemed ghostly in the morning fog. Certainly, the man had to be a spirit. But eventually, Sidney nodded his assent and from that moment the soldier met him upon the beach every morning. 

The soldier was named Evgeni, and said he was a defector from a foreign land who had come with nothing more than his rucksack and the memories of snow and steel. He treated Sidney to poetry and favoured him with smiles, and for that, Sidney shared his home and his hearth. Evgeni spoke where Sidney could not and his hounds guarded Sidney’s home from storms, rats, and cold. Sidney was ever-watchful of Evgeni, and it was not long before his fascination bloomed into something more cherishing. 

“Where I am from, there is a witch who lives in the forest that many consider fickle,” Evgeni told Sidney as he gutted a fish from the morning catch. His hands were capable, Sidney saw, and his movements sure. He was becoming a wonderful chef. “I worry that some day you will anger your sea witch and great harm will come of you.” 

Evgeni did not know the nature of Sidney’s arrangement, and Sidney was certain that no harm would come of him if he should end it, yet he was reluctant to share his soul in the same way he willingly shared his livelihood. It had been so long. 

Weeks passed into months. Evgeni stayed by Sidney’s side and traded fish with the villagers. Sidney watched him with his dogs, and with the village children, and with the sick and elderly—a bright spot of sunshine along the coast, glowing around the edges. Slowly, but with certainty, Sidney found himself orbiting Evgeni and longing for his laughter, his heart. 

As the spring became summer, Evgeni came to Sidney one evening, the sunset at his back like a halo. Sidney turned his face to Evgeni like a garden turns toward the will of the heavens, waiting for another tale about distant lands or an experimental pastry placed against his lips. Instead, Evgeni said something to Sidney that made him very sad. 

“I must leave as shortest night arrives, for the rest of the growing season.” Evgeni’s face was drawn with sorrow, but he amended, “I promise that I shall return, and I will leave my companions with you for safe-keeping.” He placed his palm over Sidney’s cheek and smiled, forlorn, with the rains in his eyes.

Sidney followed Evgeni outside and watched as Evgeni transformed into a breathtaking eagle, aflame as it took to the skies and disappeared over the horizon to the East. 

For days, Sidney was distraught, now adrift without his Evgeni. He left his bed only to bring his offerings to the sea witch. Fish rotted where he left them on his doorstep, and not even the playful antics of the dogs could rouse him from his misery. He could not eat. He could not work. All he could manage was a dreamless sleep. 

Finally when the stench and funk of fish around him was so strong that it caused him to gag did Sidney rise and make a plan. 

As the summer progressed, Sidney did not sleep. He spent his nights sequestered away, creating something that he knew would change him.

* * *

On the morning of the equinox, Sidney left his house for the shore with an incredible offering. In his arms he held them, cradled as one might something precious like a child or a dream.

A cloak woven of seaweed, threaded with such care that it was silken like the lapping of waters upon the beach.

A necklace of scales and shells, polished, iridescent, created to reflect and magnify the beauty of its owner, an armor of ardor.

A crown gleaming and precious, inlaid with pearls, designed so that the wearer would be revered in any of the world’s oceans as someone with great power, wisdom, and wealth.

Each of these, Sidney laid into the ocean as the sun rose, returning the sea witch’s gifts to her along with a season of earthen tears and blood. They were themselves magic items of great power. Sidney watched them wash away, and waited. Then, as a wave receded, Sidney found a golden ring—an earlier offering which had once belonged to a traveling trickster. As he reached for the ring, he felt the ice within him shatter and melt. 

He turned and saw his soldier, his Evgeni, standing there once more having returned with the autumn winds, and to him, Sidney held out the ring.

“Evgeni,” Sidney said with a voice like crushed seashells, on his knees in the sand, “Will you marry me? Will you grow old with me and love me?” 

“Yes,” Evgeni replied as the morning light shone, “A thousand times, yes.”


	22. omega sid, alpha geno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: a/b/o dynamics, early heat sex.

_Anonymous asked: Omega sid in heat prompt! Please!!!_

_Anonymous asked: I saw your post on A/B/O, and I was just wondering if you would do omega Sid for me? That would be fantastic if you, of course if you don’t want to I totally understand!:)) have a great day!_

_Anonymous asked: So glad you love A/B/O - there just aren’t enough fics out there for Sid/Geno ABO! (There never can be enough…) Prompt: how about Sid going into heat in a REALLY public place? Locker room during media scrum? And maybe not realising for a bit? Just thinking he’s sweaty and poorly or something but then like… slick…. and lots of it…. *giggles about naughty Geno going into rut*_

(posted on July 9, 2017)

* * *

Most hockey player omegas get their heats during the summer off-season when the stress of the game isn’t throwing off their hormone levels. Sid is no exception. He’s never gone into heat while his mind and body are focused on hockey, other than one rather embarrassing Cup party in 2009—but that had been close enough to the summer break anyways. So a heat is the last thing on his mind after a Valentine’s Day game shutout. Truly, genuinely, he thinks he’s just sweaty. 

He has to _peel_ out of his compression leggings after his interview. And he can’t scent his own estrus, but—

“Jeez, Sid,” Kuni says, grimacing in the next stall over, “Keep it to yourself.”

Yep. Yikes.

“Sorry,” Sid replies automatically. That’s definitely omega slick wetting the seat, and his clothes, and his hands as he wadss up his soggy clothes. He’s used to seeing it on the sheets of his summer lake house, not the inside of his hockey equipment. 

Some of the alphas around the room perk up and look his way with varying degrees of concern: Horny, Dales, Tanger, Olli. Fuck. 

Sid resists ducking his head in embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says again, his face aflame. “Sorry, fuck, I’ll just hit the showers. See you…later.” He chucks his wet clothing into the hamper and scampers for the single bathroom down the hall, and hears laughter and hooting behind him. 

In the summer, Sid’s heats can last all week. He’s not particularly interested in finding a heat partner who he barely knows for the duration, so instead he’s stuck sweating it out on sweltering August afternoons, grinding his hole onto the most realistic knot that money can buy. And that’s what he longs for, with three of his fingers jammed up his ass in the private shower, panting against the wet tiles. He wants his silicone toy pressed as deep as it will go inside him, only—his favourite dildo is back in Nova Scotia. 

He likes being full _a lot_. He likes to be stuffed until he can feel it in his throat, but it’s really bad for his fitness, and he doesn’t need everyone’s speculation on why he’s limping. So Sid keeps the dildo back in Canada, safely stored where he’s not tempted to use it outside of his heats. He’s got a few options in Pittsburgh, but nothing that will get _deep_ the way he wants. 

He hooks his fingers in his ass and comes weakly: two little splatters down the drain. Hopefully that’ll hold him until he’s away from the team. He can’t go as many times in a row as he used to.

Christ, he’s nearly 30.

Sid cranks the taps to ice cold and rinses away all his slick. 

After his shower he pats himself dry, already a little sensitive. He probably won’t make it on the road game in a few days. Not that he’s interested in enduring the molten-hot center of his heat in Columbus. It’ll all be over by the outdoors game, though. 

He hears the doorknob turning, and doesn’t have time to call out a warning before it’s opening. 

And then Geno is staring at him, eyes wide as saucers, and Sid’s towel is hanging uselessly over his shoulder. Sid’s cock isn’t hard or anything, just swollen between his legs, but he sees Geno and a trickle of slick runs down the inside of his thigh. 

Geno closes the door behind himself. 

“Fuck, Geno, you can’t be in here,” Sid says, whipping his towel off his shoulder and wrapping it around his hips. 

Geno’s doesn’t say anything. Instead he stalks towards Sid and captures his lips, tongue sliding in as Sid gasps, and it’s not a lightning strike or a forrest fire. It’s a tidal wave. There’s probably a lot of reasons why this is going to be a disaster.

Well, never mind. None of that matters.

Sid tips his head back, and Geno scents his pulse, nuzzling and laving and nipping while Sid just shivers. Geno’s hands trace down Sid’s body and land at the towel, hooking and tugging. It drops to the floor when Sid lets it go easily. Then Geno’s hands are on his hips and he drops another kiss on Sid’s mouth before returning to his neck. Every pass of Geno’s tongue on his skin sends little rivers of pleasure through his body. 

He’s leaking, he’s sure, and his thighs are trembling. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sid chants, unbidden as Geno mouths at his neck, and then suddenly he’s being spun around, pressed against the wall with Geno fully clothed at his back. 

Geno bites gently at the nape of Sid’s neck, grips Sid’s pecs, and then palms his belly. “Sid,” Geno murmurs in his ear, and Sid moans and arches his back instinctually, trying to get closer to Geno's cock, trying to get it inside himself. 

Sid braces himself, one hand on the wall and the other at the back of Geno’s head. His hair is still damp, and Sid can’t decide where he wants to guide Geno’s lips. 

But he doesn’t have to think, because Geno reaches lower, between his legs, and rubs the skin behind his balls. The movement is smooth against the tender spot because—oh God—Sid is just _wet_. And Geno keeps rubbing the slick around. Rubbing it in. Geno kisses the shell of his ear, and Sid jolts, sighs. He didn’t know how sensitive he was there. 

The slick doesn’t stop, and the warmth builds in his belly like hot coals. He’s not too loud, but when Geno’s fingertip breaches his hole, he yelps, “ _Fuck_.” 

And he just—opens. 

Geno’s first finger slides in, and Sid cants his hips, silently asking for more. Geno complies, circling Sid’s hole first, rubbing in the wetness, and then entering with two. He twists, and curls, and finds Sid’s prostate in miraculous seconds. He strokes until Sid whines, and then backs off until he’s just thrusting his fingers in, in, in.

“How you like?” Geno asks, kissing Sid’s neck, his temple, his cheek.

“Deep,” Sid sighs, and Geno’s fingers are long and perfect but still not _enough_.

Geno presses in his ring finger with the first two, stretching Sid, but it’s still too easy. They glide right inside. “Yeah? I’m give you what you need.”

And Sid doesn’t doubt that. He’s seen Geno’s cock. He’s glanced at Geno soaping it in the shower and swelling in his jeans. Sid’s taken alpha dick before, but never in a heat, and fuck if he hasn’t been thirsting after it for _years_. Geno has a big cock. Sid has had enough daydreams about it that he should feel ashamed, but instead he just wants it inside him.

Geno’s belt buckle jingles.

“No, wait,” Sid says, because he wants it the right way. In his bed, or Geno’s, it doesn’t matter. At least somewhere safe. 

“Wait?” Geno asks, and starts pulling his fingers out.

“No, not—” Sid backs up, but a half-second too late as Geno slips away, and now he’s empty, bereft. He can’t quite hold back the whimper. “Just don’t knot in me yet. Later, you can. But right now, I need you to let me come. _Make_ me come, Geno, please, please, please—”

Geno’s fingers are back in him and Sid sighs in relief. “Okay. I’m do.” 

“ _Hurry_ ,” Sid says, because it’s suddenly urgent. He wants— “ _More_ ,” Sid demands.

“Okay, okay,” Geno says, and then he’s thrusting his fingers and brushing past Sid’s prostate on every pass. Sid comes in a matter of a minute. 

“Yeah, Geno,” Sid groans, and stretches into it, clenches around Geno’s fingers. It’s still not the full-body orgasm he needs, but it’ll be enough to sate him. 

Then Geno is pulling out his fingers, and his wet hand grips Sid’s hip, holds him steady. Sid hears Geno stripping his cock, and then Geno makes a punched-out grunt and he’s coming, too. It splashes all over Sid’s lower back, _tons_ of it, slipping down his ass and thighs, dripping off his hips. Geno’s come is. It’s a lot. And Geno kind of rubs it in a little bit before he bends for the towel and mops up. 

He does a pretty bad job, actually, and it cools on Sid’s skin. Sid realizes he has nothing to wear to get him to the dressing room and he really needs another shower. 

But then Geno is spinning him back around and kissing him, sloppy and joyous and satisfied. He smells like dark chocolate.

“Hey,” Sid says, the tail end of the word swallowed up by Geno’s mouth. 

Geno pulls back and beams at him, and wow. 

Wow, holy shit. 

Sid might…have some things to contemplate later. 

“Just starting with you,” Geno promises. He holds Sid’s face in his slippery palms, and kisses Sid like he’s helpless to hold back. “Take care of you so good.”

“It’ll probably be a few days for me,” Sid says, a little sheepishly. 

“Good,” Geno nods, “Have lots I’m want to try. Gonna knot you, Sid.” His smile turns a little predatory. 

Sid’s belly clenches again. “You’ve got to let me blow you, first. I want to suck your cock. Maybe a couple times. For practice.”

Geno looks struck at that. “Yes, uh,” he licks his lips, “Okay. Right now?” 

“No,” Sid rolls his eyes, “get me home, first.”

“Okay.”

Geno doesn’t move. 

“I need pants, Geno, go!” Sid points towards the door, and Geno nods, and scrambles away. As soon as the door closes behind him, Sid’s body feels squirmy, empty, alone. He’s almost tempted to follow. 

Fuck, Geno is going to end up mating Sid. Goddammit. Probably tonight. He won’t be able to help it, because of that lingering chocolate scent, the way Sid’s neck tingles, the feeling of the slick which is still dripping out of him, and all the come.

Geno is going to mate Sid.

Sid’s gonna let him.


	23. omega geno, alpha sid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: a/b/o dynamics, heat sex, my unabashed love for food.

[Part One missing — if you have a copy of it, please let me know]

(posted on July 15, 2017)

* * *

Heats are messy, no doubt about it. 

Sid likes to keep his house immaculate—magazine-perfect—but that all goes to hell when Geno comes over, plaintive and already tender, demanding. There are clothes tossed everywhere, mountains of decorative pillows, slick drying on every seat, and crumbs in Sidney’s bed. It’s sticky and gross and the minute Geno leaves, Sid will go on a cleaning spree. But meanwhile he likes the way his home feels more lived-in, even though some might call it debauched. A fuck-nest. Geno marks up his house and for a glorious two days, Sid soaks it all in.

Over the years, Sid has become the master of finger-foods. Geno’s appetite during heats is as fickle as his desires, so Sid preps enough to feed the both of them, but in small packages. 

He feeds them to Geno by hand, an old-world heat behavior that they’re both inordinately fond of. 

Geno is in his lap, tucked around him, and Sid does his very best not to shatter the beautiful stillness of the moment. For now, Geno is content and satisfied. He’s not squirming for anything. Sid feeds him things from a platter, one piece at a time. 

He watches with the pleasure of a job well done as Geno savors each piece. Geno closes his eyes and chews slowly—cherry tomatoes bursting in his mouth, peach juice running down his chin, flaky pastry on crumbling on his lips. If Sid is lucky and he’s done particularly well with something, Geno will lean forward so Sid can lick the flavor of it from Geno’s tongue. The fig and goat cheese bites are a big success this time, as are the roasted walnut pieces that tumble off the top of them which Sid has to carefully reach for on the sheets. Then there are the stuffed mushrooms, and apple slices, and strips of salty bacon, and soft, buttered baguette slices, which Geno bites in half and leaves the rest for Sid to eat. Geno licks honey and whipped cream from Sid’s fingers, and then Sid chases down the sticky trails they leave behind on Geno’s skin. 

The cookies are mostly for Sid, but Geno doesn’t mind them either. 

Geno sighs happily and says something that sounds like a compliment in Russian, so Sid says, “Thank you,” and kisses the corner of Geno’s mouth where all the sweetness lingers. 

“Don’t thank yet,” Geno purrs, rocking his hips where Sid is knotted inside him. “Still hungry.”

Sid gasps. “Well if you keep doing that, I’m never going to be able to go get you more from the kitchen.”

“Maybe I’m not hungry for food,” Geno says as Sid runs his hands over Geno’s sides, gently as he can, even though his instincts say he should grab Geno and _pin him down_. “You love me?”

“Of course,” Sid pants, and Geno rocking faster, clenching around him, “Of course I do. I love you, I love you, I—”

“Then give me what I want.”


	24. both omegas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: a/b/o dynamics, heat sex, sex toys.

_Anonymous asked: how about sid and geno, two omegas in love (and heat)_

(posted on July 30, 2017)

* * *

Zhenya loves that Sid gets really loud.

In his heat, Sid is insatiable. His stamina is unlike any Zhenya has ever seen. It’s like porn, how bad Sid wants it—how he begs and groans. He’s nigh insatiable and he isn’t ashamed to make it known again, and again, and again.

When Zhenya had presented, all he had for his heats while he writhed unsatisfied was his fingers and his imagination. No Alpha had interest in his gangly limbs or his lithely muscled physique, nor did Zhenya have any interest in getting fucked by someone who would ignore him when his hormone levels returned to stasis. He was lonely for a long time.

Sid, meanwhile, is an expert in self-gratification. 

He has a remarkable collection of sex toys, lined up on the shelves of his walk-in closet, each carefully selected for their luxury and pleasure. There are plugs, dildos, and vibrators. Some are chosen for their length, others for their girth, and yet more which vibrate and thrust at the push of a button. They’re a myriad of colours—except orange—and there’s a shiny golden one which Zhenya is not permitted to touch. There are even some that Sid has purchased with Zhenya specifically in mind, and it’s a wonderful thing.

“ _More_ , Geno,” Sid demands, grinding himself down on the ridged, double-layered, cock-shaped silicone in Zhenya’s grip, wrecking the steady rhythm in his desperation. 

Earlier, he’d pushed an unforgiving knot of glass inside Zhenya until it locked, and challenged him to hold off his orgasm. There’s no position on the bed he can take where the press of glass doesn’t send him shivering to distraction, his own dick drooling over Sid’s expensive sheets, but Zhenya is competitive, and if Sid wanted it, Zhenya is certainly capable of delivering results. He feels full and frantic, tension coiling within him from the effort to focus on fucking Sid with the dildo at a precise angle, but he’s determined.

“Come on,” Sid complains again. Zhenya twists his wrist and Sid moans, gripping the sheets. He’s flushed from the tips of his ears, across his face, and down his neck to his chest. The heat makes him blush so beautifully.

Zhenya runs his fingers along the inside of Sid’s thigh where he’s absolutely shining with slick. Sid is just glowing with it, grunting and gasping a litany which over the years Zhenya has become quite proficient in translating: Sid is getting close. 

Sid cants his hips, whimpering as he rides the dildo, chasing his orgasm. Then on an enthusiastic thrust, he bounces right off, and Zhenya loses his grip entirely. Sid yowls, pulling the sheets away from the mattress. “In me, in me,” Sid chants, and Zhenya knows what he wants. He scrambles to comply. “ _Please_. Hurry _up!”_

He moves up on the bed, knees spread with Sid’s thighs over his hips, and he sinks his own cock into Sid’s wet, winking hole. “ _Fuck_ ,” Zhenya curses. 

“Fuck,” Sid repeats, breathy, “ _Fuck me,_ c’mon.”

Zhenya tries to give it to Sid as hard as he knows Sid wants, but with the glass knot inside him it’s impossible. He wraps his slippery hand around Sid’s cock instead. He doesn’t have his own knot to offer, but this is something he can do, something that makes Sid throw his head back and shout. 

Sid clenches around Zhenya as he comes, trying to lock. His eyes are glittering when Zhenya glimpses them between the kisses he rains upon Sid’s open mouth. He bows over Sid’s body, still holding back from coming, though he doesn’t know how. 

“It’s okay,” Sid says, his voice now a whisper, drawing Zhenya in with his strong legs when Zhenya can’t move anymore. “Come in me. It’s alright.”

And Zhenya does, biting a claim on Sid’s neck. It sends them both spasming. Sid’s hands claw at Zhenya’s back as he sobs. Zhenya licks gently at the mark his teeth leave behind. “Sorry,” he says, gasping, “Too rough.”

“Mmm, no,” Sid purrs, “you were perfect.” Sid scents the spot beneath Zhenya’s jaw. “Stay in me?”

“Going soft,” Zhenya warns. He’s usually grateful that his anatomy lets him relax after orgasm. So he slides two fingers into Sid’s ass along with his dick, hoping it’ll ease Sid when he has to withdraw. 

Sid reaches behind Zhenya for the base of the glass knot, and Zhenya’s whole body clenches in possessive refusal. “Let me have it.”

“Can’t,” Zhenya grits out, clinging against his will to the heft of the knot.

But Sid has his ways, and he’s better at this than Zhenya, and he twists and tugs until the knot starts to come free, stretching him around the widest part until he finally releases his hold. Slick gushes out of him now, sliding down his balls and mingling with the tackiness on Sid. It’s the best scent in the world.

“Gross,” Sid comments, and kisses Zhenya before he can get mad about it. “I love you so much. You did so good, G.”

Zhenya collapses with his full weight on top of Sid. “Half hour, then you fuck me.”

“Oh yeah?” Sid asks, his voice full of waiting challenge.

“Yes,” Zhenya murmurs into the pillow next to Sid’s head. “Nap now.”


	25. cuddles and comfort at dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: very gentle fluff.

_Anonymous asked: hi can i get a bit of sidgeno fluff or like comfort thing i had a really bad day :((_

(posted on July 17, 2017)

* * *

Evgeni likes Sid in his bed when the dawn is just breaking on the other side of the house, and everything seems bluish and dreamy. 

Last night, Sid had gone to sleep without dinner, crashing after a horrible shutout on behalf of the visiting team, and Evgeni had been left to make sure Sid’s jacket was hung properly and the coffee set to perk before breakfast. He had been irritable then, but he can't stay mad. Especially now, as Sid’s face is smoothed with sleep, lips pouting shiny pink, chest rising and falling—Evgeni’s favourite slow-motion metronome. 

His hair is soft, curling as Evgeni cards his fingers through it. Sid grumbles into the pillows, “Too early.”

“Yes, go back to sleep,” Evgeni says, and to his contentment, Sid does. 

Evgeni wants to climb on top of Sid, blanket his body, press him into the mattress and pepper his neck and shoulders with kisses, but he doesn’t intend to wake Sid before he has to. He’s always struck with the need to run his hands all over Sid when he’s peaceful like this, to categorize with his fingers and his lips. He settles for tucking his nose behind Sid’s ear, smelling the shampoo from the rink, and drifts back to unconsciousness. 

Some time later, Sid is the one to wake him up, turning around onto his side and curling in to Evgeni’s chest for warmth, because one of them has kicked the comforter down to the end of the bed. 

“What time is it?” Evgeni asks, feeling like if he’s this rested then they must have missed morning skate by a mile. 

“Wanna try that again in English?” Sid presses his face into Evgeni, nuzzling into the space. 

“Time,” Evgeni says again. 

“Only seven,” Sid says. He tangles his legs with Evgeni’s. They have fifteen minutes until the clock radio goes off. 

He lifts Sid’s head and presses him with a kiss, mouth closed, chaste, though immediately Sid tries to deepen it, slotting their lips together. Evgeni pulls back to peck Sid on his nose and then his forehead. He’s not excited yet, but he could get there fairly quickly if Sid gets to have his way. 

“How you feel, my love?” Evgeni asks.

Sid sighs and hides his face again, arms wrapping around Evgeni’s ribs. “Better, but also…kinda…” He trails off and pushes his body at Evgeni like he does when he’s embarrassed or grumpy. He’s probably a little of both. Evgeni lets himself be moved, until Sid is more-or-less on top of him from chest to hip. 

“You so pretty, Sid.” The honesty spills out of him in the morning. Well, both of their defenses are down at times like these. That’s part of why Evgeni loves the mornings together. 

“Ugh, Geno,” Sid groans.

“It’s true!” Evgeni kisses the side of Sid’s head and strokes his back. “Let’s skip practice and I just say you beautiful until you believe.”

Sid sighs. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

“Nice hair, so soft like this. Skin is very warm, cheeks hot, ears hot. Best ass of course, but you know. Lips are made just for me,” Evgeni lists, “Your heart, my heart, together.” He drums a rhythm against Sid’s back.

“Okay, you charmer,” Sid probably means to complain, but Evgeni can hear the smile in his voice.

Evgeni rolls them until he’s on top. “I mean all of it.”

“Tell it to me, then.” Sid has the glimmer of a challenge in his eyes which Evgeni has never been able to resist. 

He’s not a poet by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s the sentiment that matters. He continues in Russian, because he knows Sid loves the sound of the praises even if he doesn’t know what they mean. “In the morning sun like this, you’re a spirit, glowing like velvet light. I can barely believe that you’re real, and that I get to have you this way. All your good days, and all your bad days, I want to cherish. I’ll never let you go. You’re a miracle. Every time I look in your eyes it’s a revelation. I’d give you anything, if only you’d ask.”

“Mm hm?” Sid purrs, and stretches blissfully under the attention. 

“It’s just one game,” Evgeni says, this time in English, tracing the shadowy line of Sid’s jaw. “You’re still best.” 

“I don’t want anyone else by my side,” Sid replies, and reaches up to kiss Evgeni again. 


	26. cuddles and comfort at night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: very gentle fluff.

_queen-alia asked: I desperately need some serious fluff, cuddling, romance, things like that! Just read an upsetting fic that I need to forget about, fluff it up_

gosh, i need that fluff, too

(posted on August 28, 2017)

* * *

Geno and Sid are both snuggle-up people at home. When they’re too drowsy to do anything productive but it’s too early to sleep, they can be found on the couch together, with their woolen socks on and a fluffy throw around their shoulders (Geno, who purchased the blanket, insists that the colour is Penguins gold, while Sid thinks it’s actually just beige). Sid will burrow beneath Geno’s arm or Geno will tuck his toes under Sid’s heavy thighs. 

Those are the best evenings, of course, when neither have anything to demand their attention beyond the warm, comforting presence of the other. 

Sid presses the most gentle of kisses along the bruise last night’s game left upon Geno’s cheek, barely letting his lips glance the mottled shape, achingly sweet and cautious. For his part, Geno trails his fingers over Sid’s skin; the hidden paleness exposed as his sweater slips up, wrists under cable-knit cuffs, the tender softness of his sides, the dance of muscles as he twists to reach Geno’s face. 

“You’re cute,” Sid murmurs between pecks. Then he kisses Geno on the tip of his nose.

“You beautiful,” Geno pokes his finger into Sid’s belly button in retaliation, and Sid squirms a little, giggling. 

“If you say so.”

Geno smiles, “I do say.”

“Kiss me?” Sid asks. Geno always does. He always knows through some wonderful kind of intuition exactly what kind of kisses Sid wants. This time it’s soft, all lips, tilting with a hand under Sid’s chin—a cozy kind of kiss. 

“Tomorrow I’m win shootout practice,” Geno says sleepily when they part and curl up again. He kisses Sid’s forehead.

“Yeah right,” Sid replies, weaving his fingers into Geno’s hair, brushing the shell of his ear, his words undermined by a yawn, “I’m totally gonna kick your ass.”


	27. geno's birthday surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: some fancy underwear.

_Anonymous asked: Since it's geno's birthday you should write a birthday fic!_

(posted on August 1, 2017)

* * *

Evgeni had meant for a nice, relaxing birthday dinner, but things had gotten out of hand as they always seem to when Evgeni’s Russian friends get together with good food and better booze. At least this year it’s only volume he has to deal with, and even though his ears are ringing as he stumbles drunkenly into his Moscow condo, laden with gift bags, he counts it as a win that the night ended with absolutely no bad decisions. 

He snaps the kitchen lights on and deposits all his accumulated presents directly onto the floor. He’ll pick them up tomorrow. _Late_ tomorrow. 

When he turns into his bedroom, something moves on Evgeni’s bed beneath the covers and—well.

Evgeni shrieks. 

The moving figure yelps, too.

“Geno, _what_?” And it’s Sidney under the blankets when Evgeni whips them off. 

“You—what the fuck?” Evgeni is shocked, to say the very least, because there’s Sid on the bed wearing pale pink panties with frills on the hips, matching body glitter on his nipples, and dusted along his cheekbones and shoulders. 

Sid groans and paws for the switch of Evgeni’s bedside lamp. “I thought you’d be back sooner.”

Evgeni’s head feels like a fishbowl and his ability to apply sense and reason to the situation is a belly-up goldfish. “Why you not tell me you come to Russia?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Sid groans as the light assaults his eyes. He flings his forearm over his eyes and Evgeni is momentarily distracted by the way his muscles stretch along his side. “You know, like, _Happy Birthday, Mr. President_ , or whatever.”

“What?”

“It’s stupid,” Sid says. 

Evgeni fumbles with the buckle on his belt, drops his jeans, and then shucks his shirt over his head. Then he flops upon the bed, partially on top of Sid. “I’m drink lots,” he says, “Talk tomorrow.”

“Sorry. Your doorman let me in.”

“Is fine,” Evgeni mutters into the bedspread. He can’t deal with whatever Sid was hoping for—probably hours of perfectly indulgent love-making, fuck—because he’s old enough that a night of drinking renders his dick useless. It wouldn’t be right, either. They’d both feel awful about drunken sex when they wake up. He can do _something_ , though, and he palms across Sid’s chest blindly until he finds the sparkling nipples. 

The glitter flakes off as he rubs, and Sid lets out some breathy half-moans as he does it. He gives the other nipple the same treatment for a minute, and then slips down and gives Sid a gentle little squeeze through the silky fabric of the underwear. Sid grunts, and he’s soft, but Evgeni loves that just as much as when Sid is desperately turned on. Then he moves his hand away and just drapes his arm over Sid’s middle, gone wonderfully wide and firm with the summer schedule of eating well and training hard. 

“I’m turning the light off again,” Sid says, and Evgeni grunts his consent. 

He hears his air conditioner switch on in the other room. He feels wide awake, but he knows in the next moment it’ll be sunny and August and nearly time for training camp again. Outside the window, Moscow glimmers and blinks sleepily. 

“Happy birthday,” Sid mumbles. Then he says something else that Evgeni can’t quite catch.

“Sleep, love,” Evgeni says. 

“M’kay. Night.”


	28. sid's birthday delight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: phone sex, naughty secret cheesecake.

_Anonymous asked: Heyyyy. How's the writers block?? Hope you're well! It's the GOAT's 30th! Sidney Crosby + birthday cake + smut (just a lil idea for you if you want it!) Take care! Xx_

_Anonymous asked: Birthday fic for sid?_

well, the writer’s block is coming along. slowly. i’ll hopefully have an update to mount/sea some time this week (and then it’ll be a lot of editing before i post the _final chapter_ ). thanks for checkin’ in!

hmmm birthday cake makes me think of that food porn submission with the cheesecake…………………which was…very good

(posted on August 8, 2017)

* * *

The Cup eventually makes its merry way from Cole Harbour onto the next stop of the victory tour, and Sid is sad to see it go—though he knows he’ll see it again. It’s pretty late by the time he gets back to the house. He doffs his hat, drops it onto the kitchen counter, and he _shouldn’t_ , but…it’s his _birthday_.

He opens the fridge and finds the leftover cake from last night’s party.

Sid cuts himself only a small slice, because he does have some remnants of self-control. He stands to eat, first swiping his index finger through the fudgy icing and sucking it from the digit, humming with satisfaction at the taste. Then he carves through the rest of the slice, savoring each precise fork-full. The cake is rich, crumbling, and cold. He alternates bites with the mound fresh strawberries that had tumbled over the side, and their tartness cuts through the sweet chocolate. 

A good dessert can be like foreplay to Sid: a forbidden delight. 

It’s mildly embarrassing that he’s chubbing in his pants by the time his plate is clean. He’s thinking about just sticking his fork beneath the cover of the saran-wrapped cake for another delightful bite when his phone lights up with a facetime request from Geno. 

“Hey, G,” Sid answers, and it’s bright morning where Geno is on the other side of the world. Geno is surrounded in the tufting peaks of his duvet, looking cozy and relaxed, his eyes hooded. “I’m just about to head to bed.”

“Good Cup day?” Geno asks.

“Yeah, pretty good. I did a lot.”

Geno smiles. “You jack off on Cup?”

Sid flushes hot, and shoves down all the images that spring to mind, “Geno!”

“I want to do for my day, but no time,” Geno shuffles around and the screen tilts, and then suddenly there’s Geno’s cock, framed at the base in the circle of his long fingers. He’s hard and shiny around the tip with pre-come. “This morning I wake up like this. Very nice dream, you know? All your fault.”

Sid’s breath hitches. “Well, do you want me to do about it?” He wishes he could reach out and touch. What he does instead is squeeze himself through his shorts. 

“Wish you’re here,” Geno says, moving his hand a little so his cock sways, and Sid longs for the familiar heft of it in his own hand. “Or wishing I’m there with you. I miss fuck you so much.”

“Is that all you miss?” Though Sid feels the same.

“Miss you kissing me,” Geno starts sliding his hand up his shaft, then spreads the gathering pre-come down his length. He sighs, half aroused and half forlorn. “Miss you hold me, and love me best, and _ride_ me until it’s hurt.”

Sid shoves his shorts to the floor and fishes his cock from his underwear. “I wanna suck you off,” Sid says. “Will you put it in my mouth?”

Geno groans, “Yes, suck me. You like to taste me?”

“Yeah,” Sid isn’t patient with himself like Geno seems to be on his end of the call. His mouth waters, thinking of Geno’s cock pushing between his lips. He likes it when Geno loses control, but he likes it just as much when Geno carefully feeds him bit by bit until Geno comes down his throat while Sid’s lips brush his pelvis. Sid could go for either, right about now. 

He watches Geno’s hand stroke evenly as he strips his own dick with impatient proficiency. It’s barely any time at all before his toes are curling in his shoes and he’s coming over his fist with a whimpery moan. 

“Oh _fuck_ , baby,” Geno pants, and Sid can’t see them from this angle but he knows how Geno’s balls draw up when he sounds like this.

“Come,” Sid says, “Come for me, Geno.” And Geno does in a half dozen strokes, with gasping little _ah_ noises that Sid can’t wait to feel panting against his neck when the season starts again.

“Happy birthday, Sid,” Geno sighs, rearranging the phone so that Sid can see the blush cooling on Geno’s cheeks and the contentment of his smile. “Give you gift when I see you.”

That piques Sid’s interest right away. “What’s my gift?”

“Big secret, can’t say,” Geno replies, and before Sid can scowl or try to guess, Geno puckers his lips and blows a kiss to the camera. “Good night. Love you.”

Well, no gift could be better than Sid getting what he really wants every year—to play hockey, to win the cup, to be the subject of Geno’s affections—so he supposes it can wait. “Love you, too.”


	29. rimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: playoff sex rules, rimming.

_Anonymous asked: Hey!!! How's your fic going? If you have any free time you should write some rimming fic !_

oh boy all everyone wants is tongues in assholes

ha ha the fic is going good—currently it’s being edited. i _miiiiight_ have to extend my deadline because i just got a new job! and i start next week! AAAAAAAAAA!!!

(posted on August 15, 2017)

* * *

“Okay, but you can’t fuck me,” Sid warns as Geno backs him into the bedroom. It’s the break between first and second round of the playoffs, but Sid has _rules_. 

“I promise,” Geno grins, and somehow Sid has a hard time believing him when he has that look in his eyes, “No fucking.”

“I mean it.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He curls his fingers into the waistband of Sid’s sweatpants and swipes his thumbs across the flat of Sid’s lower stomach. Sid sighs and tugs his t-shirt up and off, lets Geno stroke all over his chest because Sid knows he likes it, and Sid likes it too—the hot-cold contrast between the chilled air in the room and the burning heat of Geno’s palms. 

Geno kisses Sid, his mouth generous and his tongue slick as it teases inside.

They hold each other for a while, just kissing as Sid tries to keep from shoving his leg between Geno’s thighs, but then it gets to be too much and he breaks away. “Take your clothes off,” Sid says.

“Get on bed,” Geno replies with a smile. He kneads the skin of Sid’s sides, ever counter-productive. 

“ _Take your clothes off_ ,” Sid demands.

“Bossy.”

Sid shucks his sweatpants, dick bobbing as he kicks them away. “You like it when I’m bossy.” And thank God for miracles that he does.

Geno runs his tongue along his lower lip, watching Sid’s cock sway with hooded eyes, and merely unbuttons his distressed jeans. “Get on bed, Sid.”

He does it, but slowly, not really willing to submit but also not willing to wait any longer. He sits on the end of the bed, legs spread, plays his fingers along the inside of his thigh, and beckons Geno with his free hand. It works, and Geno walks closer, but then he stops. Sid huffs and reaches for Geno’s cock. He rubs the hard line of it through Geno’s jeans, but it doesn’t get the reaction he wants. 

“Turn over,” Geno says, not canting his hips like Sid hoped he would. “Go up by pillows.”

Sid flushes red hot when he realizes Geno’s plan. 

Usually, Sid will save rimjobs for special occasions, like when Geno has a hat trick or for midnight on New Year’s Eve. On the other hand, Geno has no such qualms and will shove his face in Sid’s ass no matter the reason. He’s woken Sid up this way, has crowded him into spare rooms after a game before Sid has had the chance to shower, has even rimmed him on the welcome mat in their front hallway with the door barely closed because Geno couldn’t manage to get them to the bedroom. He just genuinely enjoys doing it. 

Sid lies on his stomach and buries his blush out of sight. He groans as Geno palms up the back of his thighs, bed shifting as Geno crawls up towards his prize, and then he settles in for the long-haul. “Just get on with it,” Sid mumbles into the pillows.

“Relax,” Geno lectures as if it’s so simple with Geno’s ribcage between Sid’s thighs. Well, Sid tries, and Geno doesn’t let the anticipation kill him.

Geno parts his cheeks and hums happily, diving in. 

He licks with broad strokes over Sid’s hole, warming him up to the idea. This part, Sid has never been too keen on. It’s never stopped feeling alien to have a slippery tongue between his cheeks, even though he’s a lot less hesitant than he used to be. Once he’s been slicked, though, and can just concentrate on having Geno’s tongue lave tenderly where he’s so, so sensitive. 

The moans start unbidden, and he shoves back onto Geno’s tongue, silently questing for more. Geno gives it to him, using his thumbs to spread Sid’s hole so he can wriggle inside. He alternates between circling and pressing until finally his tongue breaches. Sid’s back arches into it, and he cries out as he tries to get Geno deeper. 

“M–muh,” Sid says, trying to beg for _more,_ but unable to form the word.

Geno hums and complies. He gives him pressure and rubs his whole face into it. He works Sid over, and over. It’s still not enough.

Sid and his stupid rules. He curses superstition because he _needs_ Geno’s dick in him. He wants to be held down and fucked, and all he has is this maddening wetness that Geno keeps spreading around with his clever tongue. He needs friction, or _something_. 

Then Geno finally presses his tongue in an extra half an inch, sucking hard on the rim, and that’s it. Sid comes completely untouched. 

He doesn’t think he screams, but his throat still feels scratchy when he floats down from his orgasm. Sid turns and looks over his shoulder, and sees Geno sitting up and wiping spit from his chin with the back of his hand as they both pant for breath. Then he pulls off his shirt and uses it to wipe gently between Sid’s cheeks because he knows Sid hates to feel damp. Such a gentleman.

“No fucking,” Geno smiles and pats Sid’s ass. 

Sid moans weakly and rolls over onto his back. He reaches for Geno, and Geno links their fingers, leans down until they’re pressed together. “Geno,” Sid gasps. Geno kisses him.

“You don’t have to say,” Geno says, “I do you so good. I know this already.”

“When all this is over,” Sid stares into Geno’s eyes with all the fire he can muster, and Geno swallows, “You’re going to dick me so good that neither of us can walk. You’re gonna come in me until you’re all spent.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geno groans.

“That’s the idea,” Sid says. “Now you’ve got thirty seconds to get your pants off and stick your cock in my mouth, or you can finish yourself off alone.”


	30. caught watching porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: auto-fellatio!

_Anonymous asked: How about one of our fav hockey boys accidentally catching the other watching porn? (Probs G catching Sid on a roadie and being like ?! Sid? Sexual? Not hockey-robot? Yessss) Anyway - hope it inspires you )))))_

(posted on August 28, 2017)

* * *

“Sid, can you—” Geno stops so fast his sneakers actually screech on the linoleum. Sid slams his laptop shut. “Uh, is okay, never mind.”

“ _What?_ ” Sid snaps. His heart rate skyrockets—he can feel it pulsing in his throat and his face steams with heat. “What do you want?”

But Geno is already backing away, palms held up in surrender, “Sorry, sorry, bad timing. I’m come back later.”

“No, wait!” Sid protests. “Hold on. It’s not what it looks like.” 

Well, actually, it’s exactly what it looks like: Sid watching porn on his laptop in the middle of the lounge after optional skate. There’s no reasonable explanation, but one of his old friends had emailed him the link with the caption _???!!!?!!!!!??!! how wtf_ and the curiosity had gotten the better of Sid before he could stop himself. And then he couldn’t stop staring at the video of the skinny, buzzcut guy who had bent his torso in half in order to slide his lips over the crown of his own erection. 

Sid is a guy with simple tastes when it comes to porn, but he’s always admired athletic prowess, and so he’d replayed the short video twice already before Geno interrupted. 

Geno tilts his head to the side, considering. “You know,” he says, “I can do that.”

Sid stares, mouth gone dry. “You—what?”

“I can do,” Geno gestures to the hastily-closed laptop, “Suck my cock, like that.”

Sid goes for a laugh, a chuckle that barely shakes out of him. “No you can’t.”

“Can do better, even.” _Jesus_ , Sid’s never imagined anything like it, but now the images zap into his brain as IMAX-Technicolor frames. Geno is pretty flexible, and his legs are _long,_ and his lips are— “You want to see?” 

The blood in Sid’s brain rockets south; he speaks before he thinks. “ _Fuck_ yes.”

* * *

_Anonymous asked: Oh my gawwwwd. I was the porn prompt anon (ha. My legacy!) and HOLY MOLY. I need more. I'm not ashamed of my desperation for more of that fic. I will try to wait patiently.... 😂 You are a goddess of S/G goodness._

_Anonymous asked: Oh my goodness your “more to come” was a heartbeat of YAY!!!! followed by crushing despair when I realized you meant other prompts (the sid watching porn - I love the idea of “the hockey robot” just getting totally flustered by the whole situation)!! What if i prompt for more of that?!? So unbelievably hot for such a small snippet!!! I don’t even ship it normally!_

aw, thanks, anons! here’s a wee bit more for you.

(posted on August 31, 2017)

* * *

“Holy shit.” He really _can_ do it. 

Geno had dragged Sid into a spare room, slid his shorts and boxers off, and flipped himself over. With his knees spread wide beside his ears and his shoulders pressed to the floor, Geno had flung his legs over his head in a few sinuous movements. He had licked his lips absently and jacked his half-hard cock to fullness while Sid watched, helpless, not knowing what to do with himself. After a moment, Geno leaned into the stretch, bent himself just an inch more and popped the head of his dick into his red, wet mouth. 

And then his jaw worked as he _sucked_.

Sid’s knees had trembled, buckled, and he found himself kneeling in front of Geno’s pretzel-like form. 

_“Holy shit_.” 

Geno looks up at Sid as he says the words out loud, then releases the bend and eases his cock out of his mouth, a shiny string of saliva trailing from his flushed bottom lip. “Can do better,” Geno says. “Out of practice.”

“Oh,” is all Sid can manage to say. 

“Maybe need try again. Or get help?”

Sid swallows. “I can definitely do that for you. What, uh,” he gets momentarily distracted as Geno sticks his tongue out, flicking the barest tip of it against the crown of his cock. “What do you need?” 

Geno beams at him. “Just you.”


	31. locker room shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: reward sex, public sex, sex between Geno and teammates who are not Sid, exhibitionism.

_Anonymous asked: (nsfw) think: what if being gay among teammates in the locker room is actually a Thing in pro sports but it's the best kept secret so no one outside knows (like what happens here stays here) and the game MVP gets a lot of love from everyone, and since sid gets hot for hockey, he's into it. maybe G plays extra well just for sid. Maybe G's really cocky when he plays best, getting lovin from rookies or whoever until sid walks in from media and then it's step aside kids!_

oh, sweet anon, there’s hardly anything in hockey-specific tropes i love more than locker room _shenanigans_. 

(posted on September 7, 2017)

* * *

Geno likes the rookie attention because they’re enthusiastic—they act like they’re still trying to earn their spot on the roster, as if Geno has any say in it—getting down on their knees and tilting their splotchy reddened faces up for approval, licking their lips.

But their eager, nervous affection is just an appetizer. It’s Sid that he wants; Sid he longs after. He shifts in place, waiting patiently until the true object of his adoration prowls into the room, hungry. 

…So does Geno get a finger for every goal he scores? Or what?

* * *

_Anonymous asked: Thanks for writing the shenanigans prompt!! (mine) SO good *___* If you're ever in the mood/have more time to add to it, I would die! <3_

_Anonymous asked: Oh please write a ‘locker room shananigan fingers ficlet drabble’ …. a worthy trope if ever there was one! Plus you’re amazing and I’d read the back of a cereal box if you had written it (and it had maybe one Sidney Crosby or Geno reference!)_

you’re all so kind to me, ha ha! okay, just a little more… (this’ll be mainly sid/geno but will also include some geno/others btw)

(posted on September 11, 2017)

* * *

The younger guys are always eager to prove their worth. Evgeni is sure he was never that wanton—eyes half-hooded, lips curling, and bending easily to be used—but at least he remembers the desperation to be seen as valuable, no matter what it took. And now, as a vet, it’s tempting to push and take what he’s earned. Two weeks ago, he’d spilled onto Olli’s outstretched tongue and then kissed the lingering salty flavor from his mouth. Back at the beginning of the season, both Shearsy and Jake had sucked his cock together in a marvelous joint effort that had stunned the new recruits, making Evgeni glow with pride and post-orgasmic bliss all the way home and into bed. 

If you dazzle on the ice, then it’s the team’s job to reward you. More often than not, it’s the rookies, call-ups, desperate free-agents, and recent college graduates who are trying to earn their place on the roster; to cement their claim. Usually, it’s those below Evgeni who are dropping to their knees.

But it doesn’t have to be.

Evgeni knows what he wants—what he wants every night but is usually reluctant to ask. 

Not tonight, though. A dick-trick is worth the most desirable of prizes. 

Unsurprisingly, the moment he steps into the room, there are teammates pawing all over him. With locker rooms the way they are, it’s hard not to be aroused by hockey excellence alone. Evgeni lets them rub against him, but he doesn’t allow anything to go too far. He’s waiting for Sid to finish with the media so Evgeni can fold himself over Sid’s generous lap and just—

The media peels away, finally. Evgeni gently pushes off Rusty and Olli and Jake, and rises to go meet his reward. 

* * *

“Are you sure you can take another?” Sid asks, twisting and spreading the three fingers he’s already stuffed into Geno’s hole. It’s an incredible sight: tender skin stretched and desperate-red. The angle isn’t great, and Sid would rather be at home in his bed doing this, but Geno asked him for this as his prize: a finger for every goal. So they remain in the locker room, under the hungry gazes of their teammates. “Don’t you want me to fuck you instead? You’re pretty loose already.”

Geno clenches around Sid’s fingers, as if in indecision. Sid strokes a hand over Geno’s spine and waits. “Okay, fuck me,” Geno says eventually, so quiet that Sid almost misses it. 

“Get up, then,” Sid pulls his fingers out and pats Geno’s hip with a wet hand. “Turn around so the team can see you.”

Slowly, Geno complies, struggling upright and then lowering himself shakily over Sid’s cock. He trembles when he’s seated. He curls in on himself as much as he can, shoulders hunched but knees spread wide around Sid’s legs. 

“That’s good, G—so good.” Sid slides his hands over the downy hair of Geno’s inner thighs, but avoids his cock, teasing. “Ride me,” Sid instructs, “Watch them looking at you.”

Geno does it, and he’s vice-grip-tight with shyness, the muscles of his back beautifully bunched. He holds onto the walls of Sid’s stall for leverage. Sid can’t help but moan, and that sets Geno off doing the same. 

“You’re amazing,” Sid sighs, kissing the parts of Geno’s back that he can reach. “You’re perfect, look at you.” He can’t see the rest of the locker room like this, but he can imagine them, wide-eyed, ruddy-cheeked, and trying not to touch themselves—some failing. _Most_ of them surely failing, because how could they _stand_ it to watch Geno slowly, perfectly losing his mind from being filled?

“Please,” Geno’s voice cracks on a cry as he moves, “Sid, come on, _please_.”

Sid gives it to Geno, then, thrusting up with whatever leverage he has. He jacks Geno with one hand and keeps the other caressing Geno’s thigh, lightly but never ceasing. And then after barely any time at all, Geno’s clenching around Sid as he comes, splattering the carpet.

In a moment, Geno climbs off, turns, and straddles Sid’s lap so they face each other. His face is dark and glimmering with unshed tears. Sid leans up to kiss him just as Geno leans down. This part, Sid has heard, is unusual in other locker rooms. But Sid likes it. Geno likes it. Kissing is just something the Penguins _do_ in their post-game celebrations. 

They kiss until Geno gets sleepy, and curls around Sid. He’ll doze for a few minutes, and Sid thinks he can hold on for that long, sitting in his still-sweaty clothes holding nearly two hundred pounds of muscle as Geno calms down. Then they’ll shower and Sid will rub his come onto Geno’s ever-so-slightly soft hips and then probably kiss some more and it won’t be part of the official celebration, but the leadership can bend the rules a little.

Sid likes wins for the sake of winning, but this is a treat all on its own. 


	32. kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: lots of kisses in all kinds of places.

As part of a prompt series on different places to be kissed:

* * *

(posted on September 15, 2017)

* * *

Sid had been effervescent in his drunkenness, putting his sticky fingers all over everything he could reach—the Cup, bottles of champagne, his teammates. Of course, Evgeni had been no exception. All night long, Sid had been clutching the touchstones of victory like he could gather the golden glow of winning into his hands for safe-keeping. He’d clutched Evgeni’s hips and run his hands through Evgeni’s hair and down the side of his neck. Sid did it like he wasn’t even aware that everyone was watching,

Then his face had fallen, sympathy in his eyes. He scrutinized Evgeni’s face and said, “Feel better.” And he placed the most gentle of kisses on Evgeni’s nose over the bandage three times, never once breaking the expression of utter concentration.

The memory is one that Evgeni carries with him through the summer, even though he shouldn’t be thinking about it—even though he should be pretending nothing happened. It just makes him feel cherished, is all. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong about wanting your captain to take care of you. 

It’s when he gets back for camp and he’s jet-lagged as hell and staring at Sid’s lips, wondering at the blooming pink of them as they part on a laugh, that Evgeni _knows_ he’s fucked. 

* * *

(posted on September 15, 2017)

* * *

He’d been delighted to discover that Sid naps naked. 

Sid lounging in the afternoon light, settling gradually into the state of mind that’ll give him the much-needed rest before a game, exposed with the blankets shoved down, is nothing short of breathtaking. His eyelashes fluttering and cheeks still slightly flushed from a post-skate workout, the relaxed planes of his wide waist, and the downy thatch of hair on his chest were picturesque enough, but his legs were really what drew Zhenya in. They’re perfectly muscular; pale and furred. They’re _thick_ and perfect for hockey. Sid has his thighs spread just a bit, inviting but not necessarily demanding.

Seeing Sid lying there—on Zhenya’s sheets no less—well, he’s gotta disrupt something before he combusts on the spot. 

“ _Geno_!” Sid shrieks and squirms and kicks when Zhenya licks over Sid’s belly button. 

“What?” Zhenya asks, faux-innocent, and drops a series of kisses along Sid’s hipbone. “You ticklish?”

* * *

_adamsgirl42 asked: 15 Pelvic bone kiss, pls?_

(posted on September 15, 2017)

* * *

“Ugh, _come on_ ,” Sid complains. It’s torturous, the slow suckling of Geno’s lips on Sid’s hip, coaxing blood to the surface. Sid wants to writhe in the sensation just as much as he wants to shove it away. He knows Geno will leave him with a burning mark for sure, but he’s desperate in other ways. He needs attention in _other places_. The marking, surely, can wait. 

Geno pulls away, leaving a slick patch of shining saliva behind, but he only leans up to kiss Sid instead. He coaxes Sid’s mouth open, tongue dancing inside for a flickering moment—just a tease—and then he’s trailing back down Sid’s body again. He ends up, inevitably, at the same place where he renews his ministrations. 

Sid gasps as Geno gets close to where he’s desperate, but he merely cycles closer and closer before pulling back and retracing his path. “Please, Geno, just—”

“Just what?” Geno asks, nuzzling his face next to the place he’s marked.

“I need you,” Sid confesses. He wants to roll over and hide in the pillows, but Geno has him pinned. 

Geno kisses his hip. “I’m here.”

* * *

_creatures-of-narrative asked: Oh, please, 6!!! If you aren't swamped/have time still, ofc._

_squidlywiddly87 said to goodnightpuckbunny: 9 for the prompt thing with sid n geno please 😊_

(posted on September 16, 2017)

* * *

Long ago, Geno would fantasize about the gold chain that graced Sid’s neck, ever-present and elegantly subtle. He’d think about sliding his fingers under it, toying with the tiny 87 pendant, making Sid shiver and beg. He would get distracted by the glint of it far too often, a long, thin line across Sid’s neck, or resting in the dip of his collar. 

The real thing is so much better. 

Sid unclasps the chain, the last layer he sheds, and lays it carefully onto his night stand before he turns to Geno and says, “Alright. I’m ready.”

Geno wants to take his time, though. He wants to take Sid apart, to set out the pieces which make Sid so wonderfully himself, and to give each bit the care and attention it deserves. 

He starts with a kiss—simple and chaste until it builds into passion. Impossibly, Sid gives back better than he gets. Everything is exponential with him—even kissing. He’s thorough. He’s fantastic. 

Then Geno slips down Sid’s jaw, under his chin, and to his neck, where Geno lingers. Sid loves the attention there, and he tips his head back and pleads with a soft sigh. Geno is delighted to give Sid what he wants. He kisses the pulse point of Sid’s neck, sucking with barest pressure. He’s gentle, hands splayed on Sid’s chest for balance. 

Eventually he takes his focus lower and kisses the spot where the 87 lays, and along the ridge of his collar bones. He nuzzles his whole face into the warmth of Sid’s neck. In response, Sid’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Geno’s head, fingers threading through his hair. “ _Mine_ ,” Geno thinks, a little nonsensically. “ _This is what Sid gives to me, and no one else_.” 


	33. pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: a pride parade!

_Anonymous asked: okay okay i got one bc we always see the boys alone but like what would they be like in a pride parade_

(posted on October 3, 2017)

* * *

They’re retired, and out publicly, still living in Pittsburgh because neither can bear to live anywhere else, as much as it aches to be there during hockey season. Neither are quite comfortable in queer spaces. Being openly, flamboyantly gay was never an option. And Pride is—well, not always _flamboyant_ , but definitely unapologetic. Both have spent years assuming that coming out of the closet would be a lot of saying sorry.

It’s strange to be on top of the Penguins’ float, waving nervously. Geno allowed the PR team to drape his neck with a multi-coloured silk flower lei, though he tries not to think about it. Sid refused any sort of decoration. Instead he’s wearing his wedding ring on his left hand, something he usually keeps in its velvet box on his dresser. It’s an accessory he wears at home where Geno can see it, or maybe close friends and family, but no one who would eye it suspiciously or with contempt. 

There’s a lot of loud music. People seem…happy. 

They’re all happy to be who they are. 

The two of them don’t kiss in front of the gathered crowd with glitter-coated, upturned faces. They don’t even hold hands (though Sid’s fingers twitch in that direction at least half a dozen times). Yet when the parade has ended, and Geno is picking confetti out of Sid’s hair, they lean into each other’s space completely. 

They can’t be proud of the accomplishments of a community that they have never been a part of. They do not feel as if their mere presence in spite of sports and heternormativity and politics and hatred has in any way changed things for better nor worse. What they feel is only love. They are proud of _each other_.


	34. stamina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: orgasm delay, overstimulation.

_Anonymous asked: you should write ur favorite kink or one of ur faves for sid and geno!_

my kinks change like the seasons, anon. but here’s some edgeplay and over-sensitivity. :)

(posted on October 3, 2017)

* * *

Stamina is something that Sid considers a strength of his—and yet.

“ _Please_ ,” Sid cries, quivering on Geno’s cock, the girth of it stretching his hole. 

It had started slowly, Geno working Sid up from the tips of his fingers all the way up to the relentless slide of his dick into Sid’s ass. He had kept Sid hard with nearly-delicate strokes, playing with him in an endless, relentless tease along his shaft. And Geno had whispered encouragements to Sid, telling him how amazing, how beautiful, how perfect he was being. “Feel so good,” Geno had promised, pressing Sid into the mattress. “Tight,” he’d said, “ _hot_.”

Now Geno is barely moving at all. He’s buried deep inside Sid, once in a while twitching helplessly, but otherwise his hands only trail along Sid’s hips, coming close to his cock but never touching.

Geno kisses Sid’s neck over and over again. He presses in close, completely still inside, and layers affection upon Sid and meanwhile, Sid lost his fucking mind. “Geno, please, I need it,” comes Sid’s pleading whimper. He tries to thrust backwards, but that only causes Geno start to slink away. If Sid stays perfectly still, then Geno’s hands continue to stroke over his skin, and his cock remains stretching him from the inside.

“You want to come?” Geno asks for the third time.

Sid’s answer is the same, choking on a sob: “Yes, yes, _please._ Let me, please, fuck.” He babbles and Geno moves his hands toward’s Sid’s cock, flexes his own cock in impossibly deeper. 

“Yeah? Should I touch your pretty cock and let you come?”

“Yes,” and Sid moans low and long when Geno finally circles his fingers around the head of Sid’s cock, but at the same time withdraws from Sid’s hole entirely. “Uhnnnnooo,” Sid whimpers, confused.

“No?” Geno sucks the spot behind Sid’s ear that always makes his toes curl. “Don’t want to come?”

“No, I want to.” He tries desperately not to flex his hips; to remain motionless so that Geno will be merciful. 

Geno hums, certainly pleased with himself, and sinks back inside all at once. Sid shouts, but stays still. “Good,” Geno says, and then thrusts, slow, but forceful, pushing Sid’s cockhead through the ring of Geno’s fingers. 

“Wh—uhnn,” Sid stutters, “Geno, I’m—I can’t.”

“Is okay,” Geno says, though his permission doesn’t mean that he won’t stop again. The dual sensations of being tugged by Geno’s steady fingers and impaled by his thick cock are too much to bear, nearly painful with how flushed Sid has become, but it still isn’t enough for Sid. He could go at this pace forever and still not come. 

“Please, I need—”

“More? So greedy for my cock, but still not enough?” Geno grinds in and holds still again. Sid nearly screams. Geno lets go of his cock for a moment, and brushes the back of his knuckles over Sid’s sternum. “Alright, Sid. Okay, baby, I give you what you need.”

He shifts their position—turns Sid’s hip so that Geno has more leverage—and then he thrusts in, fast, nailing the angle that brushes across Sid’s prostate every time. It doesn’t take long at all after that. Sid comes in a brilliant rush of pleasure and starbursts filling his vision.

Geno doesn’t stop.

He keeps thrusting at the same frantic, horribly pleasurable pace, and _then_ wraps his hand back around Sid’s cock. He strips Sid’s cock with the slick aid of hot come. Sid already feels like he’s emptied himself entirely, but Geno keeps _going_ , heedless of the hot, stinging near-pain he’s causing Sid. The sensations are too much. Sid _can’t_ come again.

And yet, when Geno groans and shudders, spills inside—he does come, or something like it, shaking apart and colliding back into himself again.

He doesn’t pass out, but he definitely loses track of time. He only returns to awareness when Geno is brushing a cool cloth across Sid’s over-heated skin. Geno helps Sid to sit up and holds the straw to Sid’s Gatorade as he sips. 

Finally, when Sid can muster looking up, Geno’s expression is hopeful, eager. “How I’m do?”

Honestly, it was pretty fucking good, but— “You can still hold out on me for longer, can’t you?”


	35. alternate ending to "of under me you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: angst, crushes revealed without permission.

_Anonymous asked: sorry i meant J for of me under you!_

the original conclusion for under me you was [even after all this time](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F10744941&t=NDJjMjU3YWM1YTNkNjdkZjc0YjJhMGY5ZDU3YjRlNTMyOGE0OGRmYSxCdnk0QmppUQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AAsWhfSfTvV3aVqoZbGCo5Q&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgoodnightpuckbunny.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168668995159%2Fsorry-i-meant-j-for-of-me-under-you&m=0), but if i had to write an alternative ending to that…………well since the first version is so fluffy, i guess it’s gotta be angst, right? so maybe geno never knocks on the door to bring sid post-game snacks. maybe he just spends the night alone. 

[please read _[of under me you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691133)_ and _even after all this time_ first!]

(posted on December 17, 2017)

* * *

There’s a knock on the door that makes Sidney jerk his hands out of his pants. It’s not his door, but the next room over. He breathes a sigh of relief, though the noise has startled him right out of his mood. He rests his hand over his lap, gentling himself, and grabs the remote to turn the TV off. He should get some sleep.

Then he hears Geno’s unmistakable rumble through the thin walls. He can almost make out the words—

“… _weird more than normal?”_ Sid is pretty sure he’s asking.

_“Sid?”_ And that’s Phil’s sharp, short bark of a laugh. “ _He’s always weird. Comes with the territory.”_

He knows. He knows he’s weird, and he’s okay with it, but it still stings when his teammates say it. They’ll go to bat for him against anyone, of that, Sid has no doubts. And even still, they talk about him like he’s some strange science experiment gone wrong. 

Well, Sid doesn’t have to listen. 

He turns the lights out, and curls up beneath the covers.

But now, in the dark, the words are even clearer on the other side of the wall. 

_“Go easy on the guy, alright?”_ Says Phil, and that’s pretty rich, considering how much Phil lives for chirping the other guys. A week ago in practice, Phil called him a leaky milk bag during faceoff drills.

_“I’m always go easy_ ,” Geno protests.

_“That’s not what I mean. Look_ ,” Phil sighs, “ _you know how he’s got this crush on you, right_?”

Sid goes ice cold.

“ _What?”_

_“You can see it from space, dude. It’s a huge crush, man, like…really big.”_

_“You think Sid likes me.”_ His tone is disbelieving, but Sid can’t be imagining the hint of disgust that’s there as well. 

_“Not just think. It’s obvious. We_ all _know.”_ He’s laughing now. Laughing at Sid’s embarrassing secret while he just tells it to Geno like it’s no big deal. “ _I mean, he’s practically writing your name in his notebook. He wants to have little Crosby-Malkin babies with you. It’s pretty cute, but o_ _h my god, Geno,_ _he—hey, where are you going?”_

_“Have to go, Phil, bye. Enjoy takeout.”_ And then the door is opening and closing shut. 

Now, the knock is on Sid’s door. He ignores it. He pretends he’s asleep.

“Sid?” Geno calls. _  
_

_“Oh, fuck,”_ Phil curses in the other room.

Geno knocks again. “You in there?” Sid imagines he’s on another planet, as far away from here as he can get. Somewhere with no atmosphere, maybe, that’ll choke him out before he drowns in his own misery. He’ll take the asphyxiation if he can get it.


	36. they get a dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: fluff, a very good dog.

_Anonymous asked: Awwww don't worry! I hope you had a fab xmas! We can all prepare by re-reading what you have so far! Can you post the link again so I can catch up? As far as prompts go... what about something about pets? I'm currently snuggled up so warm with 3 cats around me. How do S/G get a new pet? Puppy under the tree at Christmas? Stray collected by Geno with a disconcerted Sidney watching on?_

i will definitely post the link when i post the new chapter! it will be better to read everything all at once because the prose will be cleaned up considerably by the time i post the last chapter.

i’ve been meaning to make a post about sidgeno+pets for AGES (i’ve had a few prompts about this topic) but i couldn’t make a decision about what kind of dog they should have. i love dogs _so much_ and sorry it’s not cats but anyways here you go:

(posted on December 28, 2017)

* * *

Geno slides the folded piece of paper across the kitchen island cautiously.

“What’s this?” Sid asks around a mouthful of granola. 

“Boxing Day present,” Geno replies demurely. 

His expression is not boding well for Sid. He usually only looks like this after he’s spent multiple shifts in the penalty box or accidentally broken something delicate in his big hands. It happened last week when they were decorating the tree and he squished an old lacy snowflake ornament Sid brought from home. They’d repaired it, and now it has a bit more _charm_ than before.

“There’s no such thing as Boxing Day presents,” says Sid, as if Canada actually has rules about Boxing Day.

Geno shrugs one shoulder. “So it’s just regular present because I love you. Open, please.” 

Sid sets down his spoon and unfolds the paper. He’s grateful, at least, that there’s no waterfall of glitter or noisemaker involved. 

At the top of the page is a picture of a dog—skinny, long, and black, with a white patch on its chest. _Meet Blitzen_ , reads the bold title. Then, it goes on to say: _Blitzen is a sweet girl who loves cuddling, chew toys, snacks, and naps. She is good with company, but can also entertain herself. On walks, she sometimes will try to bolt if she sees something exciting, so it is best to keep her on a leash with a harness instead of a collar. She does well with children and other dogs, and can build up to appreciating cats. She would love to learn some tricks. Blitzen is a Penguins fan and does not like the colour orange._ There’s two more pictures of Blitzen below, and then contact information for a Pennsylvania greyhound rescue. 

“You got me a dog?” Sid asks, a little bewildered. He surely would have noticed Geno preparing to bring a dog into the house. 

“Not yet,” Geno says, “have to go visit first. See if it’s right dog for us.”

Sid looks at the pictures of Blitzen again. “But we already have dogs.” Although Sam is back in Nova Scotia, and Jeffrey is in Russia. Besides, getting a puppy is what baby hockey players do with their girlfriends when they’re too young to have children but still desperate to start a family. 

Geno huffs, and sounds a little hurt when he says, “I’m just ask. We don’t have to get dog.”

“No,” says Sid, because in one of the pictures, Blitzen is wearing one of those Penguins-branded Santa hats, “I want her.”

* * *

The process of adopting a greyhound starts with looking through profiles of dogs and then contacting their foster homes, which Geno has already done. He had set up a tentative meet-and-greet with Blitzen for Boxing Day afternoon. Normally, Sid would be ticked about missing out on post-Christmas shopping, but in this case, he doesn’t mind. 

They meet Blitzen, who is shy at first. After her foster guardians let Sid and Geno take her out for a walk, though, she ends up leaning heavily against Sid’s legs and tilting her head up to be scratched under the chin. 

“We’ll be back for a stretch on the sixth,” Sid says. They’ll have the bye-week plus a handful of home games. It’s plenty of time to get Blitzen used to their home and to find a dog walker for the times that they’re away. 

“Yes?” Geno asks, with a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. “We get her?” 

Blitzen presses her nose into Sid’s palm and then sneezes. “Oh, definitely.”

* * *

Most of the time when Sid and Geno are at home, Blitzen spends either sleeping or moving her mountain of chew toys from one room to the next. If Sid and Geno are stretched out together on the couch to watch game tape, she’ll join them and rest her pointy snout on the nearest lap. She settles in like they’ve always had her and is just the right amount of needy. 

When they’re out of town, Blitzen is looked after by a sitter who is training to be an Olympic sprinter. She and Blitzen race in the backyard and take short jogs together twice a day. Sid and Geno get sent identical pictures of Blitzen passed out in her dog bed after a good run. When they’re in town, Geno insists that Sid take Blitzen for her walks, which he’s certain is a ploy to get him to do more cardio. It works.

Blitzen ends up becoming the companion dog for guys who are out on injury and need some purpose while healing. She’s good with the team’s dogs, too, except that she can get a little selfish for attention. Beckham scares her a little, but he _adores_ her. 

“Please wash me, Papa,” Geno says in his mimicking-Blitzen voice after they pick her up from an evening playdate at Murr’s new house, “He’s drool _all_ over me.”

Blitzen gives Sid a pathetic look through the rear-view mirror. Sid reaches back and she obediently puts her nose into his hand. “You’ll survive,” he says, but as soon as they get home, they run a bath for her. Blitzen, they’ve learned, is very good at splashing water onto every surface of the downstairs bathroom. 

She doesn’t like to sleep in their bed with them, which is fine because what they get up to in that bed is pretty much _not safe for dogs_. Instead, she posts up inside her crate at night, a remnant of her former life. Sid and Geno are both damp from her bath, but she’s dry and content. 

“You’re so talented,” Sid compliments her as she lets Sid give her his one daily kiss on her head. Then she rests her snout on her crossed paws and starts to doze. 

“What about me?” Geno asks.

Sid rolls his eyes. “Yes, you’re talented too.” He can’t reach the top of Geno’s head to kiss while they’re standing on even ground, so instead he links their fingers together and pecks the back of Geno’s hand.

“I can prove.” 

“Oh,” Sid smiles, “good.” They race each other upstairs.


	37. new year's day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: morning after, regret but then no regrets.

_icosahedonist asked: prompt: a bad decision that turns out all right_

_Anonymous asked: Prompt: The morning after the big NYE celebration and I don’t remember falling into bed with you but now I really need to find my pants but you’re like really hot and passed out_

what would new year’s day be without regrets?

(posted on January 1, 2018)

* * *

Zhenya wakes up and it takes him a moment to take stock of his surroundings. To start with, he has the kind of headache that comes from the deadly combination of champagne and poor dietary choices. He’s missing his pants, but still has his shirt and one of his socks, and he bumps his watch which must have fallen off his wrist and into the sheets. The bed is one he recognizes: the vaguely uncomfortable, yet familiar mattress quality of hotel rooms across the country. 

They’re in Detroit, he remembers. They lost the game against the Red Wings last night, and it was New Year’s Eve. If he had to guess, he probably spent the evening trying to teach the younger Penguins how to do a real Russian New Year’s celebration. He doesn’t doubt that there was more than _just_ champagne, but he usually knows how to avoid a hangover. At this point, Zhenya is too wise to go to sleep without drinking water after a party. 

Someone shifts on the bed next to him. 

Zhenya turns his head, praying that he hasn’t made some horrible mistake.

Of course, fortune does not tend to favour the recently-drunk. 

Sid is beside him, completely naked, his hair an adorably rumpled mess of curls—the likes of which Zhenya hasn’t seen for years. And of course, he’s Sidney Crosby. Every inch of him revealed above the sheets is sculpted by obsession. Zhenya usually doesn’t let himself look. 

He spares more than a glance now, though. 

After a good, long moment, he touches Sid’s shoulder, and wakes him.

Sid blinks awake, slowly at first, then flinching with awareness. “Fuck,” he groans, and buries his face in the pillow. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“I have no pants,” says Zhenya. He’s starting to gain a little clarity about what they got up to last night. 

“Yeah, well I don’t have any clothes at all.” Sid steals all of the sheets, and wraps them around his shoulders like a cloak. Zhenya is pretty sure that those sheets aren’t exactly clean, but based on the panic he sees building in Sid’s eyes, he decides not to mention it. 

He remembers now: the vodka, the competitive rounds of shuffleboard, the countdown to midnight, staring at Sid’s mouth and sparing an idle thought for how pink they always are. Then there was the champagne, and guiding Sid back up to their hotel rooms. Zhenya remembers thinking _fuck this_ , and cradling Sid’s jaw in his hands, kissing him—Sid was so _responsive_ —and then they had crashed into bed together. After that, his memories get fuzzier. It all happened so fast. 

Sid tugs the sheets off the bed as he stands. “What time is it?” His cheeks are flushed a splotchy red. It’s incredibly endearing.

Zhenya sits up and finds his watch in the bed. “Six thirty-seven.” There’s plenty of time before the bus leaves to the airport. 

Plenty of time for things to get very awkward and unpleasant, too.

“Uh, so, about last night—”

“Sorry, Sid.” Zhenya grimaces, willing this conversation to end as quickly and as painlessly as possible. His crush on Sid is surely visible from the moon, but Sid is also oblivious to it, and Zhenya hopes he can excuse himself as merely drunk and lonely, not infatuated. “Last night I drink too much, go too far.”

“I guess I did, too,” Sid replies. “But it was—”

“You can forget, please.”

“—really good for—oh.” The smile that was starting to tug at the corner of Sid’s mouth drops. “Okay, uh…I can do that.”

“Wait, was good?” If he was drunk enough to forget the details, he was certainly drunk enough to be merely mediocre, Zhenya is sure.

“Yeah,” and Sid goes even _redder._ “It was kind of amazing.”

Zhenya’s jaw pops open in surprise, but no sound comes out of his mouth. 

“It wasn’t the way I imagined it, but that’s okay, because the real thing was so much better.” He tugs the sheet around himself tighter, but sets his jaw and looks Zhenya right in the eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I really like you, Geno.” 

“Me too,” Zhenya blurts, so grateful. 

Sid drops the sheet. He’s all strong lines of muscle and flushed skin. Zhenya can’t help but drink in the sight again. “Oh thank God,” he says, and crawls back into bed. “Will you kiss me again?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says, reaching and pulling Sid in, “of course.”


	38. valentine's massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: fluff.

_icosahedonist asked: how about "massage" for the valentine's prompt?_

(posted on February 14, 2018)

* * *

Sure, they get massages from the trainers whenever they need one—it’s part of the professional athlete package—but Sid is sometimes stressed beyond just the regular muscle aches. Zhenya is happy to provide what Sid needs. He lets Sid lean against him as they watch evening game highlights, cradling him, allowing Sid’s weight to anchor him into the corner crevice of the couch. 

Then Zhenya drags his hand up and down Sid’s arms, over his chest and stomach. The ribbed material of Sid’s sweaters makes his fingers tingle as he rubs over it again and again. When Sid begins to relax, going practically boneless in Zhenya’s embrace, he’ll add some pressure. Sid’s body is designed for performance, but when he gets sleepy and affectionate like this, he becomes just a little bit soft. Squishy, though he’d never admit it out loud. And if Zhenya is lucky, Sid will let out quiet, happy sighs as he’s massaged and letting go of his usual restraint. 

Even on a day off, Sid is halfway asleep within an hour or less. He blinks slowly like his eyelids are leaden. He’s no longer paying attention to the sports analysts on TV pick apart the Rangers’ scoring chances. It’s then that Zhenya ducks his head and kisses Sid’s neck, which he usually doesn’t allow. 

“Quit slobbering on me,” Sid complains, grinning. So of course, Zhenya kisses him in the same place again, this time making a sloppy pass of his tongue.

“No slobber,” Zhenya says. 

Sid just giggles, though, pinking up in delight. “Gross.” He tries to turn around so he can nap with his head on Zhenya’s chest. 

Zhenya is not going to wreck his back by sleeping on the couch, no matter how much he loves Sid. “Up, Sid. Bed,” he says, and starts the long process of getting a sleepy Sidney to move from a comfortable place. Sid can drape himself however he wants if they’re at least horizontal. 


	39. valentine's edible panties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: Sid's sweet tooth.

_Anonymous asked: How about edible panties for a valentine's prompt? ;)_

hi anon! sorry i passed out watching the can vs usa game last night and didn’t get the time to answer this until now. but here’s what i think would happen:

(posted on February 15, 2017)

* * *

Sid buys the [underwear](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MDC0Ot225kY/VqsrkRQW9BI/AAAAAAAAUwQ/k0Po3oXuuBk/s1600/sexynotsexy18.jpg) on a late-night whim, thinking that he’d like Geno squirming underneath him while he slowly nibbled away at the candy near his delicate skin. He’s hoping it will be the kind of funny, sweet thing they need right now. (At this point in the season, they’re either too tired to bother, or just frustrated enough for hurried handjobs.)

On the day when Sid gets the box in the mail, he texts Geno to come over right away. He changes into sweatpants to keep warm, forgoing both t-shirt and boxers for the sake of convenience. He crawls into bed, turns on the TV to wait, and opens the box. Inside is a plastic bag, and inside the bag is a pile of pastel candy beads. The beads are tangled on their string, but Sid figures it out eventually. They untwist into a g-string that matches the picture, more or less. 

He wonders if the candy is actually any good. It wouldn’t hurt to try, surely.

And so that’s how Geno finds him, when he inevitably arrives at Sid’s house late: Sid with sugar dust all over his chest, and a sad, damp string with only a few remaining beads in his hand. He looks at Geno sheepishly. He hadn’t _meant_ to, but—whoops.

Luckily, Geno is far happier to tongue the powder from Sid’s chest than he would have been in the edible undies. Sid contents himself with the fact that Geno’s body is probably too generous to accommodate the pair, anyways.


	40. exhibitionism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains: humiliation, exhibitionism, locker room sex, the team is there and kind of involved.

I wrote this fic and published it anonymously on zhenyabest's tumblr as a guest fic. 

(posted on March 4, 2018)

* * *

The thing is that Sid likes to be watched. He used to fantasize about anonymous hands on him; anonymous eyes watching; anonymous voices telling him how to please. Geno had managed to pull his secret from him, as reluctant as Sid always was to explain his desires. Once the _team_ found out about it, though, Sid was really fucked—so to speak.

On any particular home game, after the reporters and coaches have vacated the room, everyone reconvenes in various states of dress to sweet-talk Sid out of his layers. Normally, Sid’s stall is off limits, but not when the arena has gone ghostly quiet and dark like this. He’ll sit with his legs spread wide, achingly hard, _on display_ , and that’s merely the beginning.

They all tell him that he has a nice cock, and Sid feels the compliments pour into him like whiskey, heady and warm and overwhelming. Every word makes him shiver and twitch. They say he looks eager and ready. Sid wants to be useful; his team tells him all the ways they want to use him. His mouth should be filled, his ass stuffed, and it’s hard to keep up with the demands. He wants to do everything all at once. He wants to be wrecked, and he’s straining for it, but everybody just stays put. No one moves a muscle.

“Touch yourself,” Geno finally says, and Sid barely knows where to begin.

Sid trails a hand over his cock, unable to keep the whimper from the breath he lets out.

“No,” snaps Geno, and Sid lets go of himself at the command in his voice. “You come too fast that way. Not fun for team to watch.”

He slides his palms up to his chest instead. It’s safer territory. He cups his pecs, squeezing and showing off a little, revelling in the calls of admiration it earns him. Sid can be good. He can serve the team in more ways than one.

Geno walks over, his body loose and confident. He always looks incredible to Sid—a dream that was never meant to come true but did anyways—but post-game is a particular favourite. In his base layers after a cool-down on the bikes, his lips red and wet, needy for a way to expend his excess energy, well, no one can blame Sid for panting after him. Geno stops at his side and strokes his big hand through Sid’s sweaty hair and down the back of his neck. His fingers slip beneath Sid’s chain, possessive.

“Sid can’t make me come, last night,” Geno announces, tugging at the necklace. “He fall asleep on me.”

The guys laugh, and Sid flushes red hot. He looks down at the floor; he can’t believe Geno would tell them that. It’s private—and it wasn’t his fault anyways. They were both tired, it was late, the lights were off, and Sid had thought that Geno was seconds away from sleep. He’d pulled out and flopped to the side, unconscious between one breath and the next. And now everyone knows how lazy and selfish he’d been.

Shame coils low in his gut. His cock jumps. 

“You make it up to me,” Geno says. He releases Sid’s neck and goes to rummage in the storage under his own stall.

It’s a moment before he produces a fleshlight, which Sid recognizes to be his own—one he thought he’d hidden deep in a drawer of old clothes. He spent a lot of time sliding his dick past the silicon labia, long ago. He’d been young and too busy to find a partner. It was easier to imagine fucking into the perfect someone. The memory of it is feverishly embarrassing, but Geno is unerring in his ability to exploit the things that make Sid blush. Of course he found it and _of course_ he stole it for the express purpose of humiliating Sid.

“Sid’s good at hockey, _so hot_ , but maybe not so good at sex.” Geno smirks, and Sid feels betrayed. He tries so hard for Geno— “He’s just need practice. It’s okay. Guys watch, and make sure he does just right.”

He holds the toy in front of Sid, angled just out of reach. Sid looks between the fleshlight, and Geno, and doesn’t dare look at the room. It’s a challenge, gloves thrown down, and this is something Sid can definitely win, but he’s hesitant. He can _prove_ to Geno that he’s an attentive lover. He doesn’t want to have to prove it in front of the whole room.

“Aw, need help?” Geno coos, and grasps the shaft of Sid’s dick meanly. He tugs, and Sid has no choice but to follow until the head of his cock is pressed to the entrance of the toy. “Do work, baby. Don’t be princess.”

Sid glares, but the guys are hooting about how spoiled he is, so he flexes his hips and thrusts inside.

It’s already been lubed, but it’s cold. All Sid can do is flex his hips and fuck into the toy. Normally, he can hold Geno by the hips, and angle for his prostate, and kiss him, and touch all the places that make him whine. This is a poor representation of Sid’s ability—his talent. As he strains to perform, he feels nineteen pairs of hot, hungry eyes on him. He’s not sure if he wants to curl up or fight.

Geno shifts and leans down. He doesn’t exactly lower his voice when he asks in another betrayal, “Who here you want to fuck you?”

Sid nearly chokes on his own spit and his hips stutter. Geno reaches with his free hand to squeeze Sid’s ass. “Geno—”

“Hm?” He teases. “You want big, tall, like Jamie or Horny?” Sid whines, and closes his eyes. He can’t risk meeting anyone’s gaze, afraid of what he’ll see. “Or you want little bit mean—Tanger? Maybe you need sweet like Shears. Rookies treat you nice, try so hard for captain.”

The next pump of Sid’s hips has him spilling into the pink plastic folds of the fleshlight far too soon. 

Geno clucks his tongue, disappointed. He tosses the fleshlight to the side carelessly. “What, body only good for hockey? Can’t even do this? Short show for team. Go on, Sid, say sorry.”

“Sorry,” Sid breathes, coming down from his orgasm, body sagging. Geno pulls his head up by the hair on back of his neck.

“ _Real_ sorry, Sid. Come.” He pushes Sid to his knees and leads Sid around by the head. It’s difficult to maintain some height—he doesn’t want to crawl—and Geno drags him to the nearest guy. “Tell him.”

Sid looks up at Shultzy, who is pink and ruffled, and says, “I’m sorry.”

“What sorry?” Geno prompts.

Shultzy gulps. Sid feels the heat rising from his face. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

“It’s okay,” Shultzy starts to mumble, but Geno grunts and tugs Sid along to the next.

He makes Sid give heartfelt apologies to every member of the night’s lineup. Some of them are blushing and stuttering. Some Geno lets skim callused hands over Sid’s body. The rookies pet his thighs with wide-eyed wonder, and older guys pinch his nipples or tug his soft cock cruelly.

“I’m sorry I let you down,” Sid says, eyes prickling with tears as fingers wander down the cleft of his ass. “I’ll work harder next time.” By the end of the line, Sid is trembling. The cold air of the room is too much. He feels scraped clean, raw, tender—and he’s hard again.

Geno leads him to the center of the room and kneels next to him over the Penguins logo. He takes Sid’s head in his hands and kisses him. It’s a full, wet kiss, and demands the whole of Sid’s attention. In a way, it helps to change his frame of mind. Geno guides him down, lays him out across the rug, and climbs over him. He’s still wearing all his clothes. They rub against Sid’s sensitive skin as Geno shifts against him with intention.

It’s gratifying, at least, that Geno is also hard.

He grinds against Sid, and kisses him, pins his hands above his head, until Sid thrusts up against him. He misses the rhythm Geno is trying to build by a mile. It’s enough, though. He’s racing to the end again because he can’t help himself. Geno comes first, gratifyingly, gripping Sid’s hands and bearing down against his body.

Sid follows not long after. And then he lays beneath Geno’s full weight, struggling for breath, but luxuriating anyways.

“You make mess,” Geno murmurs in Sid’s ear, though his voice this time is warm and affectionate, instead of disdainful. He slides his fingers through the come smeared between them, and then he offers it to Sid. Mostly from a desire to please Geno, Sid obediently licks up his release. To his delight, Geno does groan softly. “Good,” he says, “good, Sid.”

He hears the guys pack up and leave. Most of them are chatting lowly. A few head back to the showers.

“I’m sorry for falling asleep on you,” Sid finally says to Geno. He kisses whatever he can reach—the stubbled skin of Geno’s chin.

“Don’t care,” Geno grunts. “It’s cute when I wake up and your dick still hanging out and you’re snore.” Sid doesn’t think that’s cute by anyone else’s standard, but Geno says it with stubborn conviction, so it’s believable enough. 

They don’t stay on the floor for long, but by the time Geno rolls off Sid and they stand up, the room is completely vacated. Sid maybe has to lean on Geno a little bit so he doesn’t fall over. Geno politely doesn’t tease him for it.

“You know I’m gonna get you back for all this, right?” Sid goes for lightly threatening, but it’s hard to sound serious when your arm is around a guy’s warm, solid waist.

“Get back for what?” Geno asks. “You love it.”

“And those things you said to them.” Sid persists, now a little bit ticked. “The stuff we do together—the things I tell you about who—what—those are private,” he stutters, “and I thought you knew that.”

Geno turns him so they’re facing each other. “Sid. Guys want to give you want you want. They like you so much. They love you. If you ask, they give you _everything_ , just like I do. But,” he says with a smirk, “I’m not share everything.”

This, more than the humiliation, is what makes Sid blush. Geno wants him and is selfish and jealous about it. Geno wants Sid alone. He wants Sid in every way.

“I’m still gonna fuck you so hard for this,” Sid says, ignoring the way his face _flames_ and his heart races. He loves Geno so damn much. “They’re going to scratch you for the next game because you won’t be able to walk.”

“Sure, sleepy,” Geno teases, and kisses him on the cheek.


End file.
